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SHORT PLAYS 



n BY 

MARY MacMILLAN 




CINCINNATI 

STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 

1913 



^^^'ir 



4^ 

1^ 



Copyright, 191 3, by 

STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 

All Rights Reserved 

Copyright in England 



©CI.A357992 



TO 
M. L. 



Some are born dramatists — like Shakespeare, 
some achieve dramatic construction — like Ibsen, 
some have drama thrust upon them — like me. I 
did not lisp in numbers, for the numbers came, 
but rather I was locked up alone in a room 
with a crust of bread and a tincup of water 
and commanded to write a drama that could 
be produced by five or six women In forty-five 
minutes without scenery on a stage as big as a 
good-sized book. The process was repeated at 
Intervals throughout the last few years and this 
little collection of plays is the result. With the 
exception of " The Gate of Wishes " they have 
all been presented by the Cincinnati College Club 
or the Cincinnati Woman's Club and otherwise 
and elsewhere. " The Gate of Wishes " was 
first published in Poet Lore, " A Fan and a Pair 
of Candlesticks " came out In the College Club 
edition of the Club JVoman's Magazine, and 
'' The Shadowed Star '' was published separately 
by the Consumers' League. The songs In " The 
Rose " and " Entr' Acte " were set to music by 
Mr. Sidney C. Durst and may be obtained from 
me at any time. For the dance In " Entr' Acte " 
the music we used was " Espanita." The de- 
scriptions, stage-settings, directions, and so on 
throughout the plays are as I have seen them In 
my imagination, but may be changed according to 
the exigencies of any private performance. No 
one knows these exigencies better than I. And 



If any one wishes to have Ralph's eyes green In- 
stead of brown, or Peter Dodsley's cloak sky- 
blue, or the scene of " A Woman's a Woman " out 
on the lawn, or to alter an unprepossessing speech 
— why, he has the whole universe to choose from, 
and my blessing. 

Mary Mac Millan. , 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Shadowed Star i 

The Ring 21 

The Rose 51 

Luck? 67 

Entr' Acte 123 

A Woman's a Woman for A' That . . . .145 

A Fan and Two Candlesticks 173 

A Modern Masque 187 

The Futurists 207 

The Gate of Wishes 233 



THE SHADOWED STAR. 

CAST. 

A Woman, the mother. 

An Old Woman, the grandmother. 

Two Girls, the daughters. 

A Messenger Boy. 

A Neighbor. 

Another Neighbor. 

\_A very bare room in a tenement house, un- 
carpeted, the boards being much worn, and 
from the walls the bluish whitewash has scaled 
away; in the front on one side is a cooking- 
stove, and farther back on the same side a win- 
dow; on the opposite side is a door opening 
into a hallway; in the middle of the room 
there is a round, worn dining-room table, on 
which stands a stunted, scraggly bit of an 
evergreen-tree; at the back of the room, near 
the window, stands an old-fashioned safe with 
perforated tin front; next it a door opening 
into an inner room, and next it in the corner 
a bed, on which lies a pallid woman; another 
woman, very old, sits in a rocking-chair in 
front of the stove and rocks. There is silence 
for a long space, the old woman rocking and 
the woman on the bed giving an occasional 
low sigh or groan. At last the old woman 
speaks. '\ 

I 



SHORT PLAYS 



The Old Woman. David an' Michael 
might be kapin' the Christmas wid us to-morrow 
night if we hadn't left the ould counthry. 
They'd never be crossin' the sea — all the many 
weary miles o' wetness an' fog an' cold to be 
kapin' it wid us here in this great house o' brick 
walls in a place full o' strange souls. They 
would never be for crossin' all that weary, cold, 
green wather, groanin' an' tossin' like it was the 
grave o' sivin thousan' divils. Ah, but it would 
be a black night at sea! [She remains silent for 
a few minutes, staring at the stove and rocking 
slowly.] If they hadn't to cross that wet, cold 
sea they'd maybe come. But wouldn't they be 
afeard o' this great city, an' would they iver find 
us here? Six floors up, an' they niver off the 
ground in their lives. What would ye be think- 
in'? [The other woman does not answer her. 
She then speaks petulantly. ] What would ye be 
thinkin'? Mary, have ye gone clane to slape? 
[Turns her chair and peers around the hack of it 
at the pallid woman on the bed, who sighs and 
answers.] 

The Woman. No, I on'y wisht I could. 
Maybe they'll come — I don't know, but father 
an' Michael wasn't much for thravel. [After a 
pause and very wearily.] Maybe they'll not 
come, yet [slowly] maybe I'll be kapin' the 
Christmas wid them there. [The Old Woman 
seems not to notice this, wandering from her 
question hack to her memories.] 

The Old Woman. No, they'll niver be lav- 
in' the ould land, the green land, the home land. 
I'm wishing I was there wid thim. [Another 

2 



THE SHADOWED STAR 



pause, while she stares at the stove. ^ Maybe 
we'd have a duck an' potatoes, an' maybe some- 
thing to drink to kape us warm against the cold. 
An' the boys would all be dancin' an' the girls 
have rosy cheeks. \_There is another pause, and 
then a knock at the door. " Come in^^ the two 
wovien call, in reedy, weak voices, and a thin, 
slatternly Irish woman enters.^ 

The Neighbor. Good avnin' to ye; I came 
in to ask if I might borrow the loan o' a bit o' 
tay, not havin' a leaf of it left. 

The Woman. We have a little left, just 
enough we was savin' for ourselves to-night, but 
you're welcome to it — maybe the girls will 
bring some. Will ye get it for her, mother? 
Or she can help herself — it's in the safe. It's 
on the lower shelf among the cups an' saucers 
an' plates. \^The Old Woman and Neighbor go 
to the safe and hunt for the tea, and do not find it 
readily. The safe has little in it hut a few 
cracked and broken dishes.~\ 

The Neighbor [holding up a tiny paper bag 
with an ounce perhaps of tea in it"]. It's just a 
scrap ! 

The Old Woman. To be sure ! We use so 
much tay! We're that exthravagant ! 

The Neighbor. It hurts me to take it from 
ye — maybe I'd better not. 

The Old Woman. The girls will bring 
more. We always have a cupboard full o' 
things. We're always able to lend to our neigh- 
bors. 

The Neighbor. It's in great luck, ye are. 
For some of us be so poor we don't know where 

• 3 



SHORT PLAYS 



the next bite's comin' from. An' this winter whin 
iverything's so high an' wages not raised, a 
woman can't find enough to cook for her man's 
dinner. It isn't that ye don't see things — oh, 
they're in the markets an' the shops, an' it makes 
yer mouth wather as ye walk along the sthrates 
this day before the Christmas to see the turkeys 
an' the ducks ye'U niver ate, an' the little pigs 
an' the or'nges an' bananies an' cranberries an' 
the cakes an' nuts an' — it's worse, I'm thinkin', 
to see thim whin there's no money to buy than it 
was in the ould counthry, where there was noth- 
ing to buy wid the money ye didn't have. 

The Woman. It's all one to us poor folk 
whether there be things to buy or not. [She 
speaks gaspingly, as one who is short of hreath.'\ 
I'm on'y thinkin' o' the clane air at home — If 
I could have a mornin' o' fresh sunshine — these 
fogs an' smoke choke me so. The girls would 
take me out to the counthry if they had time an' 
I'd get well. But they haven't time. [She falls 
into a fit of coiighing.~\ 

The Old Woman. But it's like to be bright 
on Christmas Day. It wouldn't iver be cloudy 
on Christmas Day, an' maybe even now the stars 
would be crapin' out an' the air all clear an' cold 
an' the moon a-shinin' an' Iverything so sthlU 
an' quiet an' gleamin' an' breathless [her 'voice 
falls almost to a zvhisper]^ awaitin' on the 
Blessed Virgin. [She goes to the windozv, lifts 
the blind, and peers out, then throws up the sash 
and leans far out. After a moment she pulls the 
sash down again and the blind and turns to those 
in the room with the look of pathetic disappoint- 

4 



THE SHADOWED STAR 



ment in little things of the aged.] No, there's 
not a sthar, not one little twinklin' sthar, an' 
how'U the shepherds find their way? Ivery- 
thing's dull an' black an' the clouds are hangin' 
down heavy an' sthill. How'll the shepherds 
find their way without the sthar to guide thim? 
[Then almost whimpering.] An' David an' 
Michael will niver be crossin' that wet, black sea ! 
An' the girls — how'll they find their way home? 
They'll be lost somewhere along by the hedges. 
Ohone, ohone ! 

The Neighbor. Now, grannie, what would 
ye be sayin'? There's niver a hedge anywhere 
but granite blocks an' electric light poles an' 
plenty o' light in the city for thim to see all their 
way home. \_Then to the woman.] Ain't they 
late? 

The Woman. They're always late, an' they 
kape gettin' lather an' lather. 

The Neighbor. Yis, av coorse, the sthores 
is all open in the avnin's before Christmas. 

The Woman. They go so early in the morn- 
in' an' get home so late at night, an' they're so 
tired. 

The Neighbor [whiningly]. They're lucky 
to be young enough to work an' not be married. 
I've got to go home to the childer an' give thim 
their tay. Pat's gone to the saloon again, an' 
to-morrow bein' Christmas I misdoubt he'll be 
terrible dhrunk again, an' me on'y jist well from 
the blow in the shoulder the last time. \_She 
wipes her eyes and moves towards the door.] 

The Old Woman. Sthay an' kape Christ- 
mas wid us. We're goin' to have our celebratin' 

5 



SHORT PLAYS 



to-night on Christmas Eve, the way folks do 
here. I hke It best on Christmas Day, the way 
'tis In the ould counthry, but here 'tis Christmas 
Eve they kapc. We're waltin' for the girls to 
come home to start things — they knowin' how 
— Mary an' me on'y know how to kape Christ- 
mas Day as 'tis at home. But the girls'll soon 
be here, an' they'll have the tree an' do the cook- 
In' an' all, an' we'll kape up the jollity way Into 
the night. 

The Neighbor [looks qiiestioningly and sur- 
prised at the Womayiy whose eyes are on the 
mother. 'I Nay, If Pat came home dhrunk an' 
didn't find me, he'd kill me. We have all to 
be movin' on to our own throubles. \^he goes 
oiity and the old woman leaves the Christmas-tree 
which she has been fingering and admiring, and 
sits down in the rocking-chair again. After a 
while she croons to herself in a high, broken 
voice. This lasts some time, when there is the 
noise of a slamming door and then of footsteps 
approaching.'] 

The Woman. If I could on'y be In the coun- 
thry! 

The Old Woman. Maybe that would be 
the girls ! [She starts tremblingly to her feet, 
but the steps come up to the door and go by.^ 
If David and Michael was to come now an' go 
by — there bein' no sthar to guide thim ! 

The Woman. Nay, mother, 'twas the shep- 
herds that was guided by the sthar an' to the bed 
o' the Blessed Babe. 

The Old Woman. Aye, so 'twas. What 
be I thinkin' of? The little Blessed Babe! 

6 



THE SHADOWED STAR 



[She smiles and sits staring at the stove again 
for a little.'] But they could not find Him to- 
night. 'Tis so dark an' no sthars shinin'. 
[After another pause.] An' what would shep- 
herds do in a ghreat city? 'Twould be lost 
they'd be, quicker than in any bog. Think ye, 
Mary, that the boys would be hootin' thim an' 
the p'lice, maybe, would want to be aristin' thim 
for loitherin'. They'd niver find the Blessed 
Babe, an' they'd have to be movin' on. [An- 
other pause, and then there is the sound of ap- 
proaching footsteps again. The Old Woman 
grasps the arms of her chair and leans forward, 
intently listening.] That w^ould sure be the girls 
this time ! [But again the footsteps go by. The 
Old Woman sighs.] Ah, but 'tis weary waitin' ! 
[There is another long pause.] 'Twas on that 
day that David an' me was plighted — a brave 
Christmas Day wid a shinin' sun an' a sky o' 
blue wid fair, white clouds. An' David an' me 
met at the early mass in the dark o' the frosty 
mornin' afore the sun rose — an' there was all 
day good times an' a duck for dinner and pud- 
din's an' a party at the O'Brady's in the evenin', 
whin David an' me danced. Ah, but he was a 
beautiful dancer, an' me, too — I was as light on 
my feet as a fairy. [She begins to croon an old 
dance tune and hobbles to her feet, and, keeping 
time with her head, tries a grotesque and feeble 
sort of dancing. Her eyes brighten and she 
smiles proudly.] Aye, but I danced like a fairy, 
an' there was not another couple so sprightly an' 
handsome in all the country. [She tires, and, 
looking pitiful and disappointed, hobbles back to 

1 



SHORT PLAYS 



her chair, and drops into it again.^ Ah, but I 
be old now, and the strength falls me. \^She 
falls into silence for a few minutes.^ 'Twas the 
day before the next Christmas that Michael was 
born — the little man, the little white dove, my 
little son! [There is a moment's pause, and 
then the pallid woman on the bed has a violent fit 
of coughing.^ 

The Woman. Mother, could ye get me a 
cup o' wather? If the girls was here to get me 
a bite to ate, maybe It would kape the breath in 
me the night. 

The Old Woman \^starts and stares at her 
daughter, as if she hardly comprehended the 
present reality. She gets up and goes over to 
the window under which there is a pail full of 
water. She dips some out in a tin cup and car- 
ries it to her bed.'] Ye should thry to get up an' 
move about some, so ye can enjoy the Christmas 
threat. 'Tis bad bein' sick on Christmas. 
Thry, now, Mary, to sit up a bit. The girls'll be 
wantin' ye to be merry wid the rest av us. 

The Woman [looking at her mother with a 
sad wist fulness.] I wouldn't spoil things for the 
girls if I could help. Maybe, mother, if ye'd 
lift me a little I could sit up. [The Old Woman 
tugs at her, and she herself tries hard to get into 
a sitting posture, but after some effort and pant- 
ing for breath, she falls back again. After a 
pause for rest, she speaks gaspingly.] Maybe 
ril feel sthronger lather whin the girls come 
home — they could help me — [with the plaint of 
longing in her voice] they be so late ! [After an- 
other pause.] Maybe I'll be sthrong again in 

8 



THE SHADOWED STAR 



the mornin' — if I'd had a cup of coffee. — May- 
be I could get up — an' walk about — an' do the 
cookin'. [There is a knock at the door, and 
again they call, '' Come in,'' in reedy, weak 
voices. There enters a little messenger boy in a 
ragged overcoat that reaches almost to his heels. 
His eyes are large and bright, his face pale and 
dirty, and he is fearfully tired and worn.'] 

The Woman. Why, Tim, boy, come in. 
Sit ye down an' rest, ye're lookin' weary. 

The Old Woman. Come to the stove, Tim- 
mie, man, an' warm yourself. We always kape 
a warm room an' a bright fire for our visitors. 

The Boy. I was awful cold an' hungry an' I 
come home to get somethin' to eat before I 
started out on another trip, but my sisters ain't 
home from the store yit, an' the fire's gone out 
in the stove, an' the room's cold as outside. I 
thought maybe ye'd let me come in here an' git 
warm. 

The Old Woman. Poor orphan! Poor 
lamb! To be shure ye shall get warm by our 
sthove. 

The Boy. The cars are so beastly col' an' 
so crowded a feller mostly has to stand on the 
back platform. [The Old Woman takes him by 
the shoulder and pushes him toward the stove, 
but he resists.] 

The Boy. No, thank ye — I don't want to 
go so near yet; my feet's all numb an' they allays 
hurt so when they warms up fast. 

The Old Woman. Thin sit ye down off 
from the sthove. [Moves the rocking-chair 
farther away from the stove for him.] 

9 



SHORT PLAYS 



The Boy. If ye don't mind I'd rather stand 
on 'em 'til they gets a little used to it. They 
been numb off an' on mos' all day. 

The Woman. Soon as yer sisters come, 
Timmie, ye'd betther go to bed — 'tis the best 
place to get warm. 

The Boy. I can't — I got most a three-hour 
trip yet. I won't get home any 'fore midnight 
if I don't get lost, and maybe I'll get lost — I 
did onct out there. I've got to take a box o' 
'Merican Beauty roses to a place eight mile out, 
an' the house ain't on the car track, but nearly 
a mile off, the boss said. I wisht they could wait 
till mornin', but the orders was they just got to 
get the roses to-night. You see, out there they 
don' have no gas goin' nights when there's a 
moon, an' there'd ought to be a moon to-night, 
on'y the clouds is so thick there ain't no light gets 
through. 

The Old Woman. There's no sthar shinin' 
to-night, Tim. '[She shakes her head ominously. 
She goes to the window for the second time, 
opens it as before, and looks out. Shutting the 
window, she comes hack and speaks slowly and 
sadly.'] Niver a sthar. An' the shepherds will 
be havin' a hard time, Tim, like you, findin' their 
way. 

The Boy. Shepherds? In town? What 
shepherds? 

The Woman. She manes the shepherds on 
Christmas Eve that wint to find the Blessed Babe, 
Jesus. 

The Old Woman. 'Tis Christmas Eve, 
Timmie; ye haven't forgot that, have ye? 

ID 



THE SHADOWED STAR 



The Boy. You bet I ain't. I know pretty 
well when Christmas is comin', by the way I got 
to hustle, an' the size of the boxes I got to carry. 
Seems as if my legs an' me would like to break 
up pardnership. I got to work till midnight 
every night, an' I'm so sleepy I drop off in the 
cars whenever I get a seat. An' the girls is at 
the store so early an' late they don't get time to 
cook me nothin' to eat. 

The Woman. Be ye hungry, Timmie? 

The Boy [diffidently and looking at the floor^. 
No, I ain't hungry now. 

The Woman. Be ye shure, Timmie? 

The Boy. Oh, I kin go till I git home. 

The Woman. Mother, can't you find some- 
thing for him to ate? 

The Old Woman. To be shure, to be shure. 
[Bustling about.'] We always kapes a full cup- 
board to thrate our neighbors wid whin they 
comes in. [She goes to the empty safe and 
fusses in it to find something. She pretends to 
be very busy, and then glances around at the boy 
with a sly look and a smile.'] Ah, Timmie, lad, 
what would ye like to be havin', now? If you 
had the wish o' yer heart for yer Christmas din- 
ner an' a good fairy to set it all afore ye? Ye'd 
be wishin' maybe, for a fine roast duck, to be- 
gin wid, in its own gravies an' some apple sauce 
to go wid it; an' ye'd be thinkin' o' a little bit 
o' pig nicely browned an' a plate o' potatoes; an' 
the little fairy woman would be bringin' yer pud- 
din's an' nuts an' apples an' a dish o' the swatest 
tay. [The Boy smiles rather ruefully.] 



II 



SHORT PLAYS 



The Woman. But, mother, you're not get- 
tin' Tim something to ate. 

The Boy. She's makin' me mouth water all 
right. \^The Old Woman goes back to her 
search, but again turns about with a cunning look, 
and says to the boy:~\ 

The Old Woman. Maybe ye'll meet that 
little fairy woman out there in the counthry 
road where ye're takin' the roses ! \_Nods her 
head knowingly, turning to the safe again.'] 
Here's salt an' here's pepper an' here's mustard 
an' a crock full o' sugar, an', oh ! Tim, here's 
some fine cold bacon — fine, fat, cold bacon — 
an' here's half a loaf o' white wheat bread ! Why, 
Timmie, lad, that's just the food to make boys 
fat ! Ye'll grow famously on it. 'Tis a supper, 
whin ye add to it a dhrop o' iligant milk, that's 
fit for a king. \_She bustles about with great 
show of being busy and having much to prepare. 
Puts the plate of cold bacon upon the table 
where stands the stunted bit of an evergreen-tree, 
then brings the half-loaf of bread and cuts it 
into slices, laying pieces of bacon on the slices of 
bread. Then she pours out a glass of milk from 
a dilapidated and broken pitcher in the safe and 
brings it to the table, the Boy all the while watch- 
ing her hungrily. At last he says rather apolo- 
getically to the woman.] 

The Boy. I ain't had nothin' since a Wiener- 
wurst at eleven o'clock. 

The Old Woman. Now, dhraw up, Tim- 
mie, boy, an' ate yer fill; ye're more thin wel- 
come. [The boy does not sit down, but stands 

12 



THE SHADOWED STAR 



by the table and eats a slice of bread and bacon, 
drinking from the glass of milk occasionally.^ 

The WOxMAN. Don't they niver give ye noth- 
in' to ate at the gran' houses when ye'd be takin' 
the roses? 

The Boy. Not them. They'd as soon think 
o' feedin' a telephone or an automobile as me. 

The Woman. But don't they ask ye in to 
get warm whin ye've maybe come so far? 

The Boy. No, they don't seem to look at 
me 'zacly like a caller. They generally steps out 
long enough to sign the receipt-book an' shut the 
front door behin' 'em so as not to let the house 
ge col' the length o' time I'm standin' there. 
Well, I'm awful much obleeged to ye. Now, I 
got to be movin' on. 

The Old Woman. Sthop an' cilibrate the 
Christmas wid us. We ain't started to do noth- 
in' yet because the girls haven't come — they 
know how [^nodding her head] — an' they're go- 
in' to bring things — all kinds o' good things 
to ate an' a branch of rowan berries — ah, boy, 
a great branch o' rowan wid scarlet berries shin- 
in' [gesticulating and with gleaming eyes']^ an' 
we'll all be merry an' kape it up late into the 
night. 

The Boy [in a little fear of her], I guess 
it's pretty late now. I got to make that trip an' 
I guess when I get home I'll be so sleepy I'll jus' 
tumble in. Ye've been awful good to me, an' it's 
the first time I been warm to-day. Good-by. 
[He starts towards the door, but the Old Woman 
follows him and speaks to him coaxingly.] 

13 



SHORT PLAYS 



The Old Woman. Ah, don't ye go, 
Michael, lad! Now, bide wid us a bit. [The 
Boy, surprised at the name, looks queerly at the 
Old Woman, who then stretches out her arms to 
him, and says beseechingly:^ Ah, boy, ah, 
Mike, bide wid us, noAv yeVe come ! We've 
been that lonesome widout ye ! 

The Boy [frightened and shaking his head]. 
Tve got to be movin\ 

The Old Woman. No, Michael, little lamb, 
no ! 

The Boy [almost terrified, watching her with 
staring eyes, and backing out]. I got to go! 
[The Boy goes out, and the Old Woman breaks 
into weeping, totters over to her old rocking-chair 
and drops into it, rocks to and fro, wailing to 
herself.] 

The Old Woman. Oh, to have him come an' 
go again, my little Michael, my own little lad! 

The Woman. Don't ye, dearie; now, then, 
don't ye ! 'Twas not Michael, but just our little 
neighbor boy, Tim. Ye know, por lamb, now 
If ye'll thry to remember, that father an' Michael 
is gone to the betther land an' us is left. 

The Old Woman. Nay, nay, 'tis the fairies 
that took thim an' have thim now, kapin' thim 
an' will not ever give thim back. 

The Woman. Whisht, mother! Spake not 
of the little folk on the Holy Night! [Crosses 
herself.] Have ye forgot the time o' all the 
year It is? Now, dhry yer eyes, dearie, an' thry 
to be cheerful like fore the girls be comin' home. 
[A noise is heard, the banging of a door and 
footsteps.] Thim be the girls now, shure they 

14 



THE SHADOWED STAR 



be comin' at last. [But the sound of footsteps 
dies away.] But they'll be comIn' soon. 
[Wearily, but with the inveterate hope.'] 

[The two women relapse into silence again, 
which is undisturbed for a few minutes. 
Then there is a knock at the door, and to- 
gether in quavering, reedy voices, they call, 
^' Come in^ as before. There enters a tall, 
big, broad-shouldered woman with a cold, 
discontented, hard look upon the face that 
might have been handsome some years 
back; still, in her eyes, as she looks at the 
pallid woman on the bed, there is some- 
thing that denotes a softness underneath it 
aU.] 
The Old Woman. Good avnin' to ye! 
We're that pleased to see our neighbors ! 

The Neighbor [without paying any attention 
to the Old Woman, but entirely addressing the 
woman on the bed]. How's yer cough? 

The Woman. Oh, it's jlst the same — may- 
be a little betther. If I could on'y get to the 
counthry ! But the girls must be workin' — they 
haven't time to take me. Sit down, won't ye? 
[The Neighbor goes to the bed and sits down on 
the foot of it.] 

The Neighbor. I'm most dead, I'm so tired. 
I did two washin's to-day — went out and did 
one this mornin' and then my own after I come 
home this afternoon. I jus' got through sprink- 
lin' it an' I'll iron to-morrow. 

The Woman. Not on Christmas Day! 
The Neighbor [with a sneer]. Christmas 
Day! Did ye hear 'bout the Beckers? Well, 

15 



SHORT PLAYS 



they was all put out on the sidewalk this after- 
noon. Becker's been sick, ye know, an' ain't paid 
his rent an' his wife's got a two weeks' old baby. 
It sort o' stunned Mis' Becker, an' she sat on 
one of the mattresses out there an' wouldn't 
move, an' nobody couldn't do nothin' with her. 
But they ain't the only ones has bad luck — 
Smith, the painter, fell off a ladder an' got killed. 
They took him to the hospital, but it wasn't no 
use — his head was all mashed In. His wife's 
got them five boys an' Smith never saved a cent, 
though he warn't a drinkin' man. It's a good 
thing Smith's children is boys — they can make 
their livln' easier! 

The Woman [smiling faintly.] Ain't ye got 
no cheerful news to tell? It's Christmas Eve, 
ye know. 

The Neighbor. Christmas Eve don't seem 
to prevent people from dyin' an' bein' turned out 
o' house an' home. Did ye hear how bad the 
dipthery Is? They say as how if it gits much 
worse they'll have to close the school in our 
ward. Two o' the Homan childern's dead with 
it. The first one wasn't sick but two days, an' 
they say his face all turned black 'fore he died. 
But it's a good thing they're gone, for the 
Homans ain't got enough to feed the other six. 
Did ye hear 'bout Jim Kelly drinkin' again? 
Swore off for two months, an' then took to it 
harder'n ever — perty near killed the baby one 
night. 

The Woman [with a wan, beseeching S7nile']. 
Won't you please not tell me any more? It just 
breaks me heart. 

i6 



THE SHADOWED STAR 



The Neighbor [grimly], I ain't got no 
other kind o' news to tell. I s'pose I might's 
well go home. 

The Woman. No, don't ye go. I like to 
have ye here when ye're kinder. 

The Neighbor [fingering the bed clothes and 
smoothing them over the woman]. Well, it's 
gettin' late, an' I guess ye ought to go to sleep. 

The Woman. Oh, no, I won't go to slape 
till the girls come. They'll bring me somethin' 
to give me strength. If they'd on'y come soon ! 

The Neighbor. Ye ain't goin' to set up 'til 
they git home? 

The Old Woman. That we are. We're 
kapin' the cilebratin' till they come. 

The Neighbor. What celebratin'? 

The Old Woman. Why, the Christmas, to 
be shure. We're goin' to have high jinks to- 
night. In the ould counthry 'tis always Christ- 
mas Day, but here 'tis begun on Christmas Eve, 
an' we're on'y waitin' for the girls, because they 
know how to fix things betther nor Mary an' me. 

The Neighbor [staring]. But ain't they 
workin' in the store? 

The Old Woman. Yes, but they're comin' 
home early to-night. 

The Neighbor [laughing ironically]. Don't 
ye fool yerselves. Why, they've got to work 
harder to-night than any in the whole year. 

The Woman [wistfully]. But they did say 
they'd thry to come home early. 

The Neighbor. The store's all crowded to- 
night. Folks 'at's got money to spend never re- 
members It till the last minute. If they didn't 

17 



SHORT PLAYS 



have none they'd be thinkin' 'bout it long ahead. 
Well, I got to be movin'. I wouldn't stay awake, 
if I was you. 

The Old Woman. Sthay and kape the 
Christmas wid us! We'll be havin' high jinks 
by an' by. Sthay, now, an' help us wid our 
jollity! 

The Neighbor. Nay, I left my children In 
bed, an' I got to go back to 'em. An' I got to 
get some rest myself — I got that ironin' ahead 
o' me In the mornin'. You folks better get yer 
own rest. [She rises and walks to the door.'] 

The Old Woman [beamingly'], David an' 
Michael's comin'. [The Neighbor stands with 
her back against the door and her hand on the 
knob, staring at the Old JFoman.'] 

The Old Woman [smiling rapturously]. 
YIs, we're goln' to have a gran' time. [_The 
Neighbor looks puzzled and fearful and trou- 
bled, first at the Woman and then at the Old 
Woman. Finally, without a word, she opens the 
door and goes out.] 

The Old Woman [going about in a tottering 
sort of dance.] David an' Michael's comin' an' 
the shepherds for the fairies will show thim the 
way. 

The Woman. If the girls would on'y come! 
If they'd give me somethin' so as I wouldn't be 
so tired! 

The Old Woman. There's niver a sthar an' 
there's nobody to give thim a kind word an' the 
counthry roads are dark an' foul, but they've got 
the little folk to guide thim! An' whin they 
reach the city — the poor, lonesome shepherds 

i8 



THE SHADOWED STAR 



from the hills ! — they'll find naught but coldness 
an' hardness an' hurry. \_Questionin^ly.] Will 
the fairies show thim the way? Fairies' eyes 
be used to darkness, but can they see where it 
is black night in one corner an' a blaze o' light 
in another? [She goes to the window for the 
third time, opens it and leans far out for a long 
time, then turns about and goes on in her mono- 
tone, closing the window. She seems by this 
time quite to have forgotten the presence of the 
pallid woman on the bed, who has closed her 
eyes, and lies like one dead.^ 

The Old Woman. Nay, there's niver a 
sthar, an' the clouds are hangin' heavier an' lower 
an' the flakes o' snow are fallin'. Poor little 
folk guidin' thim poor lost shepherds, leadin' 
thim by the hand so gently because there's no 
others to be kind to thim, an' bringin' thim to 
the manger o' the Blessed Babe. [She comes 
over to her rocking-chair and again sits down in 
it, rocks slowly to and fro, nodding her head in, 
time to the motion.^ Poor little mite of a babe, 
so cold an' unwelcome an' forgotten save by the 
silly ould shepherds from the hills ! The silly 
ould shepherds from the strength o' the hills, 
who are comin' through the darkness In the lead 
o' the little folk ! [She speaks slower and lower, 
and finally drops into a quiet crooning — it stops 
and the Old Woman has fallen asleep.'] 

[Curtain.] 

[While the curtain is down the pallid, sick 
woman upon the bed dies, the Old JFoman 
being asleep does not notice the slight strug- 

19 



SHORT PLAYS 



gle with death. The fire has gone out in 
the stove, and the light in the lamp, and 
the stage is in complete darkness when the 
two girls come stumbling in. They are too 
tired to speak, too weary to show surprise 
that the occupants of the room are not 
azvake. They fumble about, trying to find 
matches in the darkness, and finally discover 
them and a candle in the safe. They light 
the candle and place it upon the table by the 
scraggy little evergreen-tree. They turn 
about and discern their grandmother asleep 
in the rocking-chair. Hurriedly they turn 
to the bed and discover their mother lying 
there dead. For a fidl minute they stand 
gazing at her, the surprise, wonder, awe, 
misery increasing in their faces; then with 
screams they run to the bed, throw them- 
selves on their knees and bury their faces, 
sobbing in the bedclothes at the JVoman's 
feet.] 



[Curtain.] 



20 



THE RING. 

CHARACTERS AS THEY APPEAR. 

Hannah Dodsley, the wife of Peter. 

Peter Dodsley, actor and stockholder in the 

Globe Theater, 
Katherine Dodsley, their daughter. 

JOHN, \ ^^yrjj^jii^ jQ fj^^ Dodsley s, 
William, J ^ 

Mistress Chettle, friend to Mistress Dodsley. 
Robin Woodcock, a young actor who takes 

women's parts. 
A Gypsy. 
Richard Powell, a young playwright in love 

with Katherine. 
A Tinker. 

Time: The days of Shakespeare. 

Scene: The house of Peter Dodsley. 

[Peter Dodsley has been a successful theat- 
rical producer and is well-to-do. He owns a 
goodly house that has almost handsome furni- 
ture and is neat and orderly, thanks to the care 
of his thrifty wife, Peter himself is a middle- 
aged man, given a little to portliness, smooth 
and well-kept, contented and humorous. He 
is very spruce and well-dressed in a suit of 
brown velvet. Hannah, his wife, is thin and 
shrill-tongued; she is over-dressed in a gown of 
21 



SHORT PLAYS 



many colors and she lacks a sense of humor, 
like the wives of men who have it. She takes 
life hard. The scene opens showing an ex- 
tremely neat and well-furnished room. There 
are doors on either side and at the hack. Han- 
nah sits knitting in a high-backed oaken chair 
by an oaken table.'] 

Peter [from behind scenes^. I say! What 
hast thou done with my new cloak ? Ho, madam ! 

Hannah. Eh, well, what is't? 

Peter [coming out carrying his hat, gloves, 
etc.']. My new cloak, as thou well knowest, 
brought home but yesterday at sundown from the 
shop by the tailor's boy and by noon to-day swal- 
lowed up in the cavernous maw of thy excellent 
housekeeping. When thou art in heaven wilt 
thou go about picking stray flying feathers 
molted from the angels' wings, and pile away all 
the harps and crowns in neat rows on the cup- 
board shelves? 

Hannah. Thou talkest of heaven too inti- 
mately, Peter. It becomes thee ill. 

Peter. But my new coat becomes me out 
of all seeming. If thou couldst but find it, dear 
dame, and see me properly housed in it, then thou 
wouldst love me as sweetly as on that May-day 
when thy round cheeks blossomed at sight of my 
adorable curled locks. Dost thou rernember, 
sweetheart, how madly thou didst fall in love 
with me? 

[He stalks about the room and finding Kath- 
erine's ring on the fuantel shelf he picks it 
up and puts it on without, however, attract- 

22 



THE RING 



ing the attention of Hannah, who goes on 
industriously knitting and heeding him not.'\ 

Hannah. Beshrew me, not I. 'Twas thou 
that couldst not bear to let me out of thy sight 
ten minutes running, and vowed to swallow 
poison or jump into the Thames if I would not 
marry thee. 

Peter. Now what a fool I was ! But that 
is of small matter when the players are all await- 
ing me at the theater and I must have my new 
cloak or go shamefaced in mine ancient rags and 
tatters. 

Hannah. Thou art late as usual? 

Peter. They do not begin the play till I ar- 
rive, therefore I am not late. 

Hannah. And goest in mad hurry as ever? 

Peter. Nay, good wife [striking an attitude 
of repose~\, that is a sin that even thou couldst not 
impute to me. 

Hannah. And hast left thy bedroom turned 
upside down and all thy clothing in disorderly 
heaps upon the floor? 

Peter. All, save my new cloak. Thou wilt 
find the rest as thou hast predicted. But, sweet 
coney, I must be gone. Try to put thy mind 
upon my new cloak rather than upon the more 
unprofitable ancient livery. If thou wouldst put 
half as much attention upon it as upon ferreting 
out my more unworthy qualities, 'twould be here 
in a trice. 

Hannah. Why dost thou not find it for thy- 
self? 

Peter. Art thou angling for sugared compli- 
ments, sweetheart? For thou dost know, that I 

23 



SHORT PLAYS 



know and that every one knows that there was 
but one thing ever in all the world that I could 
find well — and that a fair wife. [He waits 
for this to sink iji.~\ Whereas thou couldst ever 
find anything that was ever lost — even to a rich 
man's soul. 

[Katherine comes in. She is some twenty sum- 
mers old, fair and slender and lovely, what 
her mother anight have been at her age, but 
with her father's intelligence and zvit. She 
is simply clad in white and has blue eyes 
and gold brown hair — a Judith Shake- 
speare, if you please.'] 
Hannah. Katherine, go fetch your father's 
new cloak. 

Katherine [to her father]. Where is it, sir? 
Peter. Forsooth, that is the question I have 
asked resolutely for an hour past. 

Hannah. It is on the second shelf from the 
bottom of the closet in thy father's bedroom. 
Hasten, he is very late. 

Peter [with a wink at her]. What a brief 
memory thou hast, Kate, for 'twas surely thou 
that packed away my cloak since neither I nor 
thy mother knew aught about it. [Kate goes 
out smiling.] 

Hannah. 'Tis a most expensive cloak thou 
hast bought. Thou spendest money as if thou 
wert Lord Mayor of London. 

Peter. And thou shalt have as fine a gown 
of flame colored taffeta as the Lord Mayor's 
lady, for the theater does passing well and I have 
money to my purse. 

24 



THE RING 



Hannah. It irks me to buy mine apparel 
with money fetched from the theater. 

Peter. Thou shouldst not have a soul so sen- 
sitive. 'Twas ever thought good work and will 
be ever by pious Christians, to take money from 
the devil and give it to a better man. 

Hannah. Thou consortest there with a pack 
of scape-graces, and roysterers, tavern-brawlers, 
pick-purses, thieves, villains, rascals, rogues, — 

Peter. Hold, hold! Thou dost fill the jail 
faster — and with my companions and familiar 
friends — than doth the judge. Alack, alack! 
And hang London bridge thicker with heads than 
raindrops in April. [Js Katherine comes in 
again carrying his cloak.'] Ah, Kate, thy mother 
would have us all notorious villains, but, be- 
shrew me, still Is there sport in life and gin- 
ger is hot i' the mouth. To-day we play Will 
Shakespeare's merry comedy of " Twelfth 
Night," and so [putting on his cloak]^ " Anon, sir, 
I'll be gone, sir, I'll be with you again in a trice, 
like to the old vice " — [he goes on out singing in 
a full, rich, merry voice]. 

\_Katherine and Hannah, being left alone, 
Katherine goes about the room hunting si- 
lently and distractedly, while Hannah talks.] 

Hannah. Dame Chettle hath a new gown. 
[Pause.] 

Of wondrous heavy silk. [Pause.] 

'Tis brocaded. [Pause, Hannah glances at 
Katherine.] 

The sleeves are deeply slashed. [Pause.] 

And lined with yellow taffeta. [Pause.] 
25 



SHORT PLAYS 



'Tis of a grass green color. [Pause. She 
glances again at Kate.'\ 

I mean the gown itself. [Pause.^ 

And laced with scarlet ribbons. [Pause. She 
looks sharply at Kate. 

And trimmed with richest lace. [Pause.'] 

The whole gown is most richly broidered with 
gold. [Pause.] Some might think Dame Chet- 
tle's figure too short and round to wear a gown 
so ornamented. Some might think she would not 
carry it off well. [Pause.] Gramercy, Kate, 
what aileth thee? [Katherine starts hut goes on 
hunting distractedly.] Dost thou not care about 
Dame Chettle's gown? 

Katherine [bursting into tears], I care not 
about Dame Chettle's gown, nor Dame Chettle's 
taste, nor Dame Chettle's figure, nor anything 
that is Dame Chettle's. I've lost my ring! 

Hannah. Now, Katherine Dodsley, what 
wilt be telling me? 

Katherine. I've lost my ring that Richard 
gave me. 

Hannah. Thou dost not mean to tell me 
truly that thou hast lost thy ring? 

Katherine. Dost thou think I would be 
making up such a tale for thy pleasure? 

Hannah. Where didst thou lose it? 

Katherine. If I but knew! 

Hannah. When didst thou lose it? 

Katherine. If I but knew! 

Hannah. Nay, but how didst thou lose it? 

Katherine. Nay, and if I but knew! 

Hannah. Didst thou have it at dinner? 

Katherine. Yes, I think so. 
26 



THE RING 



Hannah. Then thou must have dropped it 
into the dish of stewed prunes. 

Katherine. Nay, mother, how could I? 

Hannah. Then mayhap it slipped off when 
thou wast picking a chicken wing. Or more like 
it slid off into the trencher and was carried out. 
Run and find it in the trencher. 

Katherine. Nay, I must use all my wits to 
discover how this thing chanced. [She stands in 
deep thought.^ 

Hannah. As if thinking would find the 
ring! [Jumping to her feet.~\ Hunt for it, to 
be sure, hunt for it ! It must have fallen on the 
floor. [She walks around stooping and peer- 
ing.'] Now must I find the ring, for if it were 
left to thy father or thee, it would never be de- 
tected. [Katherine hunts, too, they hump into 
each other, and finally are both down on their 
hands and knees, when a man servant looks in 
at the door. They are embarrassed, he averts 
his eyes, grins and retreats. This is John, a 
young, thin, red-haired man with obtrusive joints 
and great awkwardness. He grins always and is 
a stupid, merry lout.] 

Hannah [calling]. John, come hither. 
[John enters, shamefaced and awkward, finger- 
ing his cap, and trying hard not to laugh.] 
John, your young mistress hath lost a ring. 
[John ducks.] We were looking for it on the 
floor [John ducks again and pulls his foretop], 
thinking it might have dropped. You may con- 
tinue the search. [John ducks, then looks at her 
enquiringly.] Yes, on the floor. [John imme- 
diately sprawls on his knees. JCatherine con- 

27 



SHORT PLAYS 



tinues to hunt. Hannah sits with dignity on her 
chair, as before, but finally the dignity gives way 
to curiosity, and she is soon down on her knees 
again. Another servant pokes his head in at the 
door, is surprised, abashed, but curious, and re- 
tires with evident reluctance. This is William. 
He is very tall, lean, and dark, with a trifle more 
brains than John and overweighted with the 
seriousness of everything. Both men are dressed 
in dull-colored clothing, very short smocks which 
give prominence to their awkward legs. Han- 
nah takes her chair again with the assump- 
tion of great dignity and calls JFilUam to come 
hack.'] 

Hannah. William, come hither. [William 
enters, awkward, serious but curious.'] William, 
your young mistress hath lost her ring and we 
were all looking for it, thinking, perchance, it had 
dropped to the floor. [William ducks and pulls 
his foretop.] 'Tis a most costly ring. 

Katherine. Oh, I would not lose it for all 
the wealth of all the Indies ! 

Hannah. 'Twas given her by Master Rich- 
ard Powell. 

William [pulling his foretop with great 
earnestness.] A most notable gentleman. 

Hannah. And we have endeavored to find 
It. Do you search diligently with John. [Wil- 
liam with slower and more elaborate awkward- 
ness sprawls upon the floor and the search goes 
on as before. Dame Dodsley joining in and is 
upon her hands and knees looking under a set- 
tle, when a knock is heard at the door and Dame 
Chettle cofnes immediately bustling in and is 

28 



THE RING 



amazed at the scene. Dame Chettle is very 
short, very fat, very waddling. She is contin- 
ually out of breath and she wears a very gay 
gown.'] 

Hannah [getting up into her chair as before 
and assuming an air of great dignity]. Good 
day to you, Mistress Chettle. 

Dame Chettle. Good day to you. 

Hannah. You see us in sore straits and 
great confusion. My daughter hath lost a ring. 

Dame Chettle. Oh! 

Hannah. 'Tis a most costly ring. 

Dame Chettle. Oh! 

Hannah. 'Twas given her by Master Rich- 
ard Powell, whom as you know she will marry 
soon. 

Dame Chettle. Oh! 

Hannah. It came from Italy. Katherine, 
did thy ring not come from Italy? 

Katherine. Truly It came from Italy. 
Richard bought it of a sea captain who had It 
from an Italian gentleman In Venice. 

Dame Chettle [with large, staring eyes]. 
Oh! 

Katherine. 'Tis gold — 

Hannah [interrupting]. Very ancient and 
heavy and fine. 

Dame Chettle. Oh! 

Katherine. Set with pearls — 

Hannah [interrupting]. Very large and ele- 
gant and fair. 

Dame Chettle. Oh! 

Hannah. And she dropped It on the floor 
after dinner, 

29 



SHORT PLAYS 



Katherine. Nay, mother, I am not sure. I 
think it is not on the floor. 

Hannah. Without question, 'tis on the floor 
— where else ? 

Katherine. Nay, I am convinced it is not 
on the floor. 

Hannah. Assuredly 'tis on the floor. Wil- 
liam and John, make haste ! 

William [rolling over and sitting up on tJie 
floor and pulling his front lock of hair towards 
Dame Dodsley]. Mistress, a thief went by the 
house — 

Hannah. Then he has taken the ring. 
William and John, make haste. You slow, lazy, 
stupid varlets ! Follow him — run! \_They 
scramble to their feet.'\ 

Katherine. Wait a little. When did he 
pass? 

William. But an hour ago. 

Katherine. Was he an Egyptian? 

William. Aye, was he that — an Egyptian, 
notably black. 

Hannah. Then he has the ring. Run, 
make haste, seek him out! 

[JVilUam and John scamper off.'\ 

Katherine. Mother, hast thou any notion 
whither this Egyptian went and how they may dis- 
cover him? 

Hannah. Now why didst thou not speak of 
that sooner? They have undoubtedly taken the 
wrong way, being so witless. I will after them 
and put them on the right way. ^She rushes out.~\ 

Dame Chettle. And will she know the 
right way? 

30 



THE RING 



Katherine [smiling]. No. [She hopelessly 
shakes her head with a smile.'] 

Dame Chettle. And will she take it? 
Katherine. Assuredly not. 
Dame Chettle. Then I'd best be after her 
to put her off the wrong track. 

[She bustles out and runs smack into Robin 
Woodcock as she turns round at the door, 
Robin is an exceedingly beautiful young fel- 
low, blue-eyed, slender, lithe, graceful, yet 
with not a jot of effeminacy in his make-up. 
He is dressed in a sort of Robin Hood cos- 
tume of hunter's green and dark deep rose, 
and has a large cock' s feather in his cap, 
which he dofs and bows with sweeping 
ceremony to Mistress Chettle, who has the 
breath completely knocked out of her.] 
Robin. Gramercy! Save us all! I beg 
your pardon, Mistress Chettle. [She gives him 
a withering look, is too breathless for words, and 
waddles on out.] Katherine, what means all 
this? Has thy house, being crazy, infected the 
neighborhood? First I meet thy two men run- 
ning like mad and would not wait though the 
devil himself would offer them sack. Then do 
I meet thy mother, breathless and speechless — 
a sorry plight for a woman. And then I run into 
that winsome fairy. Mistress Chettle, and she 
glares at me as if I, being the foul fiend, were 
the cause of all this undoing. 

Katherine. Oh, Robin, make no mock of 
us! I am sore distracted. I have lost my ring. 
Robin. Your ring. What ring? 
Katherine. Oh, the only ring of any con- 

31 



SHORT PLAYS 



sequence in the whole world. The ring Richard 
gave me. 

Robin \rolling his eyes]. Then may heaven 
help us! 

Katherine [half laughing^ she makes for hhn 
and shakes him by the shoulders.1 Thou little 
knave, I will not have thee make a mock of me ! 

Robin. Mock of thee? When would I ever 
dare? I was only thinking how unfortunate it 
is that the ring was not my gift, the which thou 
mightest the more easily dispense with. See now, 
how thou mightest be advantaged if thou hadst 
taken my little ring? 

Katherine. Therein, Robin, thou tellest a 
truth that no maid listens to nor ever will. 
Things that are softly won and surely kept are 
valued less than the more difficult. 'Tis true 
of precious stones and true of human hearts. 
Perhaps the difficulty adds a zest — who knows? 
At least to some of us simplicity and ease are not 
the charms to steal away our hearts, though well 
we know that with them lies content. The keen- 
est joys are always dearly bought. 

Robin. Which means that Richard hath a 
temper. 

Katherine. Richard is intricate. He doth 
combine the lion and the lamb. And while you 
fondle the soft lamb, you must have a care that 
the lion doth not eat you up. \_She says this as 
one tells the end of a fairy tale to a childy with 
great eyes and a frightening voice.] I fear to 
have him learn his ring is gone, for he hath a 
fund of jealousy I would might be converted into 
something more useful. 

32 



THE RING 



Robin. Jealousy is convertible into nothing 
save tears. 

Katherine. Why, Robin, thou art as dreary 
as a winter's rain and quite as comforting. 

Robin. But there is no cause for jealousy in 
this ? 

Katherine. A jealous heart is apt to mis- 
construe the smallest things. Richard thinks my 
love for him not deep enough. He believes that 
his for me could compass mine about a thousand 
times. 

Robin. I see. Thy sighs do not reach down 
to thy toes and the earth beneath, as his do. 

Katherine Ismilin^], Thou hast caught the 
spirit of it. He thinks me careless, shallow, un- 
concerned. If he but knew how dear I tender 
him ! To lose his ring will grieve him past en- 
durance. 

Robin. How do you think 'twas lost? 

Katherine. I do not know. I have no re- 
membrance when I wore it last or where I may 
have ta'en it off. Therein is Richard right — I 
am negligent, a sorry fault for which I must now 
suffer. 

Robin. Thou hast searched for it? 

Katherine. Oh, everywhere. 

Robin. It will be found, and in the mean- 
time do not let Richard know 'tis gone. 

Katherine. Suppose he asks for it? 

Robin. Say I have It. 

Katherine. Thou? 

Robin. Yes, say I took It in sport to tease 
thee and thou couldst not get It back. 



33 



SHORT PLAYS 



Katherine. I fear that would make sore 
trouble. 

Robin. Nay, he could not blame thee, and as 
for me, I will win him by soft conceits and cozen 
him with jests. 

Katherine. I do misdoubt it. I would not 
have thee drawn into my sad entanglement, 
Robin. 

[A noise is heard without, clamoring and shrill 
voices, and Mistress Dodsley enters, fol- 
lowed by Mistress Chettle, and after them 
William and John.'] 

Hannah. They took the wrong road even 
as I predicted and the Egyptian escaped. 

Dame Chettle [panting and dropping into a 
chair]. Oh, my! Oh, my! 

Hannah. Shame upon you for witless 
knaves, stupid as monkeys ! [JFilliam and John 
hang their heads and look sheepish.] The 
Egyptian has the ring without doubt. 

Robin. If they took the wrong road, why 
then is there left the right road. 

Hannah. William and John, dost hear what 
Master Woodcock says? 

William [pulling his forelock]. A most 
notable gentleman. 

Robin. Then why not forth again, this time 
upon the right road? 

Hannah. Dost hear, William and John? 
Try the other way, which is the right way. A 
most sensible thought. 

William. A most notable conception. 

Hannah [furiously stamping at them]. 
Then stand not there like immovable goats, but 

34 



THE RING 



get you gone ! Forth ! Make haste ! [PFil- 
liam and John take to their heels. Mistress 
Chettle has been puffing and blowing all this time, 
sitting on the settle. Hannah drops into a chair 
for a moment, apparently exhausted, but jumps 
up again and starts to the door after the men.'\ 
Dost thou think [to Robing that they will inevita- 
bly take the right road this time? 

Robin [soberly^. I should think there were 
grave doubt. 

Hannah. Then must I be after them again. 
A stupid man is more intractable than a balking 
donkey. [She goes hurriedly out.~\ 

Dame Chettle. Now does she know the 
right road? 

Robin. The right road seems not yet wholly 
unavoidable. 

Dame Chettle. And will she take it? 

Robin. Judging from inference from the 
past, I should think probably not. 

Dame Chettle. Then I ought to be after 
and tell her so. [She waddles out and Robin and 
Kate, left alone, gaze at each other. 1 

Robin. Wilt thou after them, Kate, to show 
them the right road? 

Katherine. Nay, and if they take not the 
right road this time, still will the right road be 
left. 

Robin. A cheerful thought. Hope perches 
on thy window-sill. Now, let us sit down and 
reason out what 'twere best to do. [Robin 
takes Kate by the hand and leads her to the settle, 
where they sit down, Robin leaning over with 
elbows on his knees, thinking.^ 



SHORT PLAYS 



Katherine. Robin, thou art a wise little 
knave beyond thy years. 

Robin. I thank thee, and yet years have a 
way of creeping up, to anything even such wis- 
dom as I possess. Soon will I be too old to play 
the woman and then — 

Katherine. Why, then wilt thou play the 
man. Rosalind will have married Orlando and 
the twain be one. 

Robin. Dost thou think so? Then, If am- 
bition doth not o'erleap Itself I, the boy who plays 
Ophelia, will become the man to play Hamlet. 

Katherine. Now, by my troth, thou art a 
brave little cock. I delight to hear thee crow — 
my little Cock Robin. Ah, me, I had almost for- 
got there were such a sad thing In the world as 
a ring — alas, that It must be so generally ex- 
pressed and not more particularly placed upon 
my finger. I do not believe 'tis stolen and yet 
I have searched the house most carefully for It. 
Heaven forfend that Richard come until It be 
found. 

Robin. If he does, leave him to me. 

[A noise is heard. It comes nearer^ a gruff 
protesting, and Dame Dodsley's high- 
pitched tones are audible above the hub-hub. \ 

Hannah [without]. Nay, we will search 
thee. Come along, thou thievish knave. Thou 
hast it on thy person. [They break into the 
room. Mistress Dodsley first, backing in with her 
face toward the men, William and John, who are 
pulling along a Gypsy. Dame Chettle last.] 
Here Is the thief. I spied him from afar, and 
he made no attempt to escape, knowing his guilt. 

36 



THE RING 



[Dame Chettle, panting laboriously, drops into 
a chair, the two men clutch the Gypsy, who scowls 
and looks sidlen.] Now, sir, produce the ring. 

Gypsy. I have it not. 

Hannah [raising her hands']. Now what a 
liar thou art! 

William. A most notable liar. 

Hannah. Produce the ring, I say. 

Gypsy. I have it not. 

Hannah. Thou false wretch, to deny having 
the ring when thou wert caught in the very act of 
taking it. 

William. A most notable wretch. 

Hannah. Produce the ring, I say. Make 
no more delay. 

Gypsy. I can not produce that which I have 
not. 

Hannah. Thou bold-faced knave. 

William. A most notable knave. 

Hannah. If thou wult not produce the ring, 
forthwith, I will have thee searched. [The 
Gypsy makes no answer to this but looks even 
more angry and sidlen. William and John clutch 
his arms the tighter.'] What, dost thou still re- 
fuse? Then, William and John, take his wallet 
from him. [There is a long scuffle in which 
John at last gains the wallet and is about to hand 
it to Dame Dodsley.'] Give the wallet to Mas- 
ter Woodcock. Let him examine the contents of 
this soiled receptacle. [She shudders from the 
thing to her so filthy. Robin takes it, turning out 
odd bits of coin, string, glass, ribbon, a charm, 
etc.] 

Robin. The ring is not In this. 
37 



SHORT PLAYS 



Katherine. I do not think he has the ring. 
[Kindly.] 

Hannah. Assuredly he has the ring! 'Tis 
elsewhere secreted about his person, and he must 
be thoroughly searched. Search him, William 
and John. [They begin to search the Gypsy, 
who resists.] 

Gypsy. Let be — I know naught of your 
ring. 

Hannah. Search him diligently. [They 
clutch him, the Gypsy resists violently, and after 
a long and desperate struggle, he finally twists 
hiinself free from the men, makes a break for 
the door, and runs away, leaving them in awk- 
ward attitudes of great surprise and dismay.] 

Dame Chettle. Oh, my! Oh, my! 

Hannah [almost shrieking]. Now out upon 
you for careless fools ! You are as slow as a 
snail and let him slip through your fingers as if 
you had no more of them than hath a snail. 

John. 'Twould take as many fingers, Mis- 
tress, as hath a spider to hold such an eel. 

William. A most notable eel. 

Hannah. And even now you let him be run- 
ning as fast as his heels can carry him. Catch 
him, I say — after him and catch him! 

Katherine. Nay, mother, do not trouble 
him more. I do not think he has the ring. 

John. We passed a tinker. Methought he 
had the ring. 

Hannah. Why thought you that? 

John. 'Twas when we first went out to catch 
the Gypsy, and the tinker looked cunningly at 
the house. 

38 



THE RING 



Robin. Tinkers were thieves and tricksters 
ever. 

William. Oh, most notable tricksters. 

Hannah. I' faith I almost think he has the 
ring. 

Robin. 'TIs like enough. 

Hannah. Let us forth and set upon his 
track. Perhaps we will meet again with that ly- 
ing, thieving Egyptian. Forward, William and 
John, there Is no time to lose. 

\^She goes out, followed by the tzvo men, and 
Dame Cliettle waddles in the rear of the 
procession. Robin and Kate look at each 
other and then both burst out laughing. 
Kate throws herself into the settle.'\ 

Katherine. Oh, Robin, I think I am not 
merry; I think I am mad, rather. 

Robin [with assumed dismay']. The one Is 
the most diabolical counterfeit of the other. 
Now hath the fiend laid hold on thee. 

Katherine. Truly, I almost believe It. I 
am so tormented. I dread Richard's coming. 

Robin. If he comes, be rid of him. 

Katherine. Be rid of Richard? 

Robin. Send him away. 

Katherine [haughtily']. That I would not 
do If I so desired and I do not so desire. 

Robin. Oh, very well, then, take him for a 
walk and leave me here to settle with your 
mother. 

Katherine. I fear you do not know my 
mother. 

[A noise of footsteps is heard outside and 



39 



SHORT PLAYS 



Richard Powell enters. Seeing Robin, he 
sings so77ie words from ^^ Twelfth Night/' 
He is a tall, handsome, dark-eyed, pale and 
frowning young man. He is dressed some- 
what foppishly in a suit of purple with deep 
yellow trimming, and possesses evidently an 
overabundance of egotism with much im- 
portance of manner.^ 
Richard [singing]. " Ho, Robin, jolly Robin, 
tell me where my lady Is? " [To Kate.] Greet- 
ing to thee, my lady and my love. [He kisses 
her hand, she giving him her right and keeping 
the left safely tucked away behind her.] 

Katherine. Dear Richard [putting her left 
arm around his neck, then when he attempts to 
take this hand she withdraws i/], I am so glad 
thou hast come, for I have not tasted the air to- 
day and would like so much to have a walk. 

Richard. And Is that the reason you are glad 
to see me? [Of ended.] 

Katherine [coyly]. Nay, that Is not all the 
reason. 

Richard [smiling]. Suppose I will not take 
thee? 

Katherine [winningly]. Then must I en- 
treat thee. 

Richard [with feigned sternness]. Then 
would I be very obdurate — to be so entreated. 
[Settles himself back in a chair and folds his 
arms.] Go on, entreat me. 

Katherine. The day Is fair, my lord. 
Richard. Thou art my day, and fair to me 
alway. 

40 



THE RING 



Katherine. The air Is fresh, my lord. 

Richard. Not fresher than thy smile which 
doth me here beguile. 

Katherine. But, oh, the sky above the 
fields Is blue, my lord. 

Richard. The sky Is not more blue than Is 
my sweetheart true. 

Katherine. Here dost thou hear no tune of 
birds, my lord. 

Richard. Here do I hear thy words, sweeter 
than tune of birds. 

Katherine. There wouldst thou have all 
these and me beside. 

Richard. And sweet must these things be 
ta'en through the love of thee. 

Katherine. Then wilt thou come, my lord? 

Richard. Forsooth thou dost entreat, then 
must I come, my sweet. 

Katherine. Put It all Into a play, Richard, 
for thou wilt some day come to comedy when 
that tragedy hath made thee care more for the 
little merry things of life. Comfort each other 
whilst that I am gone for my hat. 

iShe kisses him lightly on the brow and goes 
out.'] 

Richard. Robin, my lad, is she not rare? 

Robin. So rare I almost think thou dost not 
hold her high enough. 

Richard. Nay, 'twere Impossible to hold 
her higher than I do. I know that all virtues 
reside In her. As beauty hath fashioned her 
without so goodness hath appointed her within. 
Fair and lovely as the rose Is she, and as the 

41 



SHORT PLAYS 



fragrance of the rose, her soul exhales in thought 
and deed. The spirit of gentleness, methinks, 
did hover over all the earth when she was born. 
Oh, 'tis a thing beyond the dreams of happiness 
to have a being so perfect love me. 

Robin [looking at him intently']. Thou must 
take great joy in her sure faith. 

Richard. That is the best of all — I can be- 
lieve in her. I can rely upon her truth with 
never a question. I lie upon her faith as on a 
bed of violets. 

Robin. A poet's answer. Yet a bed of vio- 
lets might damp thy coat or spirits if too long 
indulged in. 

Richard [smiling]. Thou art too young to 
be converted to a lover's faith. When thou art 
older then thou wilt not make a mock of senti- 
ment. Wert thou not at the play this after- 
noon? 

Robin. No, not to-day. Thou wast there? 

Richard. Yes, and sat upon the stage not 
to show a brave new doublet nor a handsome 
cloak as I so often have seen others do, and not 
to flout the actors or make jests and air a very 
vain and foolish wit, but rather to listen with a 
mind intent upon the marvelous words. I for- 
get the din and rudeness of the pit, the lordings' 
idle show, the roughness of the stage, and only 
hear the play, which as it doth proceed, doth ever 
grow and glow like to a May sunrise when fields 
and hills and streams are fresh and fair and full 
of joy. 

[Katherine returns with her hat on, her left 
glove on, the right one hi her hand.] 
42 



THE RING 



Richard [/o Kate]. 

Now Is crabbed winter flown, 
And grasses spring, 
And little birds sing, 
When the queen of the spring 
Doth come to her own. 

Robin. May I wait to see your father? 

Katherine. He Is late and may have gone 
to the Mermaid with the other actors for supper. 
I like not to leave thee so alone. 

Robin. If he does not come soon, then I will 
go to find him. 

Katherine. Then good-by. Find a book 
to read and make thyself at home. 

Richard. Good-by, dear lad. 

Robin. Farewell, friends. {They go out 
and he walks about the room humming to hUn- 
self, and finally picks up a hook and begins to 
read, stretching himself out on the settle. He 
suddenly stops reading, and sits up thinking. He 
reaches over to the table and feels all over it, 
displacing things. Finally he gets up and hunts 
about, going down on his hands and knees and 
peering about on the floor. A noise is heard. 
He listens. It becomes perceptible as several 
voices, the high tones of Hannah distinguishable 
above the others. Robin is intent, anxious, yet 
smiling. The yells of a man are heard: '' Let 
me be! Off with you, thou dost hurt me!'' and 
so on, and then the stern voice of Richard Powell. 
Robin takes up his book, resumes his seat, and 
pretends to be reading abstractedly when they 
all burst into the room, Hannah first, then the 

43 



SHORT PLAYS 



two men dragging the Tinker, then Richard 
looking like a thunder-cloud, then Katherine, and 
at last Dame Chettle, red-faced and panting.'] 

Hannah [very excitedly']. Here we have 
the thief at last. Beshrew me, but I thought 
we should never catch him; he did run so. 

Dame Chettle. Oh, my! Oh, my! [She 
drops down into a chair, panting and fanning her- 
self.] 

Hannah. He hath heels like a coursing 
hound — 

William. A most notable hound. 

[The Tinker raises his ragged heel and looks 
at it with a grimace.] 

Hannah. And when we did at last have him 
in our hands — John caught him first by the tail 
of his coat, which gave way like the shell from 
an egg [the Tinker looks around and surveys 
the remnant of the tail of his coat with another 
grimace]^ and it seemed well nigh impossible to 
grasp any corner of him, but when at last we 
did have him 'twas as if we had him not — he 
screwed and twisted like a hyena — 

William. A most notable hyena. 

[The Tinker suddenly assumes a horribly fierce 
look and jumps at them as if he would bite 
them, at which they all spring back and 
shriek and the servants almost lose their 
hold of him.] 

Robin. Art thou sure that this is the thief? 

Hannah. 'Tis morally certain. He doth 
not deny it. 

Tinker. Nay, then, I am a thief, but not 



that thief. 



44 



THE RING 



Hannah. What dost thou mean with thy 
hyperboles? 

Tinker. I mean that your thief being else- 
where, I am not he. 

Hannah. But you have the ring. 

Tinker. Nay, not that ring. That ring be- 
ing elsewhere, I have it not. 

Hannah. I will not listen to thy idle talk. 
The long and the short of it is, thou must give up 
the ring. 

Tinker. The long of it is the ring, being 
further off. And the short of it is I, being short 
of the ring. 

Robin. Why, excellent Tinker, thou dost 
tinker with words as with pewter pans. 

Hannah. I say to thee, produce the ring. 

Tinker. Now how may I product that 
which I did not abduct? 

Hannah. If thou dost not give up the ring 
of thy own accord, I will have thee searched. 

Tinker. Now I am a truthful Tinker and 
though I be a thief, an honest thief, and my hon- 
esty importunes me to acknowledge that I did 
not take the ring. 

Hannah. Search him, William and John. 
[They begin the search.'] 

Tinker. Now doth the Bible say truly that 
from a man that hath not shall be taken even that 
which he hath. 

Robin. Nay, perchance he told the truth. 

Hannah. He is a lying, thieving Tinker. 

Robin. But here is the one sunny spot in his 
dark life. He has not the ring because I have 
the ring. 

45 



SHORT PLAYS 



Katherine [starting]. No, no! 

Richard [who has preserved a gloomy silence 
with arms folded, at the back of the room, now 
strides forward to Robin.] Thou hast the ring? 

Robin. Gramercy, yes, who else? 

Richard. How had you it? 

Robin. Nay, Richard, do not glare so. I 
took it in a jest to tease thy sweetheart, who is 
so foolish fond of thee, and she, fearing thy an- 
ger against me, would not avouch my guilt. 
Sure, thou starest as at the seven deadly sins. 

Richard. Thou little piece of impudence, 
dost thou think that thou canst batten on my 
love for thee and take advantage of it and of thy 
youth? 

Katherine. Oh, Richard, believe him not. 
He did not take the ring. What happened to it 
I can not truly tell, but I have lost the ring and 
he has not the ring. 

Robin. She would but excuse my fault. 

Richard. You have the ring? 

Robin. I have the ring. 

Richard. Then give it up to me before I 
strike you down. 

Robin. Thy words are full of menace and of 
hate. 

Richard [striding up and down after Robin, 
who keeps just out of his way]. Provoke me not 
further but give up the ring. 

Robin. Keep hands off me and cool thine an- 
ger down. 

Richard. Thou little cockscomb, thou fool- 
hardy wight! To dream that thou couldst come 
between me and my love. Thou vain and fool- 

46 



THE RING 



Ish boy to dare affront me and meddle with af- 
fairs thou art witless of! Thou contemptuous 
small fool and worse than fool, for deception 
doth sit upon thy back. [He works himself into 
a fury and strides after Robin, who continually 
evades him.'] 

Katherine. Oh, Richard, I beseech thee! 

Richard. Speak not to me, you did deceive 
me, too. 

Katherine. Nay, dear! 

Richard. I say you did. 

Katherine. Oh, Richard, can you speak so 
to me? 

Richard. How have you used me? How 
have you abused the love I bore you? 

Katherine. Never, Richard, never. 

Richard. Aye, but you have. Never de- 
ceive me more. Do not entreat me. I will fore- 
go you. I must avoid one who is so slight of 
heart. One who could connive in affection with 
— [to Robin] — Oh, thou young rogue, to make 
a mock of things too sacred far for thy shallow 
understanding! How mine anger waxes at sight 
of thy impertinent rosy cheek ! 

Katherine. Oh, sir, I implore thee! He 
did not take the ring. Go on, search the Tinker. 

Hannah. To be sure, search the Tinker. 

Richard. Thou dost need a lesson and a 
punishment and I'll give it thee, thou little med- 
dlesome villain, thou ! [He strikes at Robin and 
grabs him by the collar.] 

Katherine. Oh, do not hurt him! [Han- 
nah shrieks and Dame Chettle screams.] 

Dame Chettle, Oh, my! Oh, my! 
47 



SHORT PLAYS 



[The Tinker yells as one of the men pinches 
him, they having gone on with their work of 
searching him. The door opens in all this 
tumult and Peter Dodsley enters,'] 

Peter. Good folk, good folkl What devil 
pursueth you? 

\_They all start and stand stock-still. Richard 
drops Robin. Peter's eye ranges round the 
room and lights on Mistress Chettle.] 

Peter. Why? Mistress Chettle, thou art as 
breathless as the air before a summer storm. 
But it would seem the others were not without 
wind to their whistles, if I might judge from the 
hubbub I heard as I approached the door. 

Katherine. Father, my ring is gone. 

Hannah. First it fell in the dish of stewed 
prunes, and then it was dropped in the trencher, 
and then it was dropped on the floor, and then an 
Egyptian took it — 

William. Notably black. 

Hannah. And then this Tinker here, whom 
we were searching even now. 

Katherine. And then little Robin, to shield 
me, said he stole it In jest. Richard is angry. 
Dear father, speak to him! Pacify him! 

Peter. And it was taken In jest? 

Richard. A very sorry jest. 

Peter. Poor Richard, thou wert fashioned 
for tragedy. Yet, methinks, thou wilt never un- 
derstand tragedy until thou hast produced a sense 
of comedy. Heaven defend thee, Kate, from 
such a cross-grained husband as Dick Is like to 
make. Poor little Robin ! Come, make friends 
with him, Dick. What! 'Twas only a jest? 

48 



THE RING 



A jocund jest? Shall there be no more laughter 
because one, Master Richard Powell, is melan- 
choly? Come, Dick, come, my sweet Dick, thou 
wilt forgive a jest? 

Richard. Some jests are not to be forgiven. 

Peter. Then am I in sad plight, for I for- 
sooth, have played a jest even like to this. 

Katherine. But Robin did not take the ring. 

Peter. Why, then have you all been ringed 
round by a trickster and followed a circle of mis- 
takes. Now who must have the ring? My 
good wife says the Tinker has the ring, and the 
Tinker's answer rings true though he says he 
has not the ring. Kate declares that Robin 
lacks the ring and Robin vows he has the ring. 
Richard doth solemnly declare he wants the ring 
and I as solemnly protest I have the ring. 
[Holding it up to the view of them all.'] We did 
need a ring for a property in the merry comedy 
of " Twelfth Night " this afternoon, and I, to 
tease my girl, my Kate, took hers without her 
knowledge or her commendation. The ring — 
why, 'tis a rare little ring — did commend itself. 
Forsooth, Richard, canst thou now forgive a jest 
or will you refuse me for a father-in-law? 

Richard. T faith, sir, if I had but known 
who did it! 

Peter. T faith, dear Dick, then learn to 
take a jest where it doth find thee, and give pos- 
session where it doth belong. [He gives Rich- 
ard the ring and carries his hand to that of 
Kate.] Those who had the ring this afternoon 
in the play were fain to say they wanted it not, 
and those who had it not were quite sure they 

49 



SHORT PLAYS 



wanted it. So wags the world. And I, lacking 
my supper, am quite sure I want it. So, dear 
dame, let me ask these friends to sup with us 
here and now. And — [his eye being attracted 
to the Tinker'] let all poor wights assembled here 
have benefit of the mischance that brought them 
hither. 



[Curtain.] 



50 



THE ROSE. 

Sir Richard, a young nobleman. 
The Lady Silvia. 
Eustace, a page. 

[Scene: An apartment — a tower room, 
perhaps — at the end of a long windy hall in 
a castle of the time of Elizabeth. It has two 
entrances, the larger is at the back of the stage 
heavily curtained, the smaller at the extreme 
left is like a secret door and is also curtained. 
The furniture is weighty dark oak deeply 
carved, there are heavy hangings, and tapes- 
try and armor deck the walls. On the right is 
a fire-place with logs burning low and in front 
of it, facing half round, is a carved high-backed 
bench. Sir Richard, followed by Eustace, en- 
ters through the curtains at the secret door on 
the left. Sir Richard wears doublet or coat 
of blue velvet with lavender trimmings, laven- 
der hose, and a cape of deep orange. The 
youth, Eustace, is in satin coat of rose with 
slashed sleeves showing light green beneath, 
and hose of pale green. He carries a guitar. ~\ 

Eustace. You will not tell me, then, what 

troubles you ? 
Richard. You're old, dear boy, beyond your 
years and yet. 
Believe me, there are feelings that the soul 

51 



SHORT PLAYS 



Is ripe for only with the ripening time. 

It is a pretty and a kindly law 

That life tests not the tender flesh of babes 

In the same scales of rude experience 

She uses 'gainst the muscles of strong men. 

Eustace. But I, my lord, am not a babe. 

Richard \_tiirmng cnid regarding him with a 
smile]. Not quite! 

Eustace. Perhaps I've lived more in my mea- 
gre years 
Than you suppose. 

Richard. I would not underrate you, 

But if a seed falls not in fallow soil 
It will not grow, or sprouts up dwarfed and poor. 
The soil of your young soul is not yet ripe 
To nourish seeds that may take root in mine 
And bear the fruit of rich experience. 

Eustace. I can not follow up your figures fair 
But yet conceding all you say is true, 
That it would be impossible for me 
To have the same experience as you 
May I not feel your trouble? Or your ruth? 
And help to bear it through my sympathy? 

Richard. Real sympathy comes not from in- 
experience. 

Eustace. With all your weight of years 
[smiling]^ there you mistake. 
Real sympathy comes from a tender heart. 

Richard. The Queen's heart's tender, but — - 

Eustace. The Queen's the Queen. 

Richard. Ah, yes, I know! I know! And 
I will do 
Her bidding loyally. Kind Heaven forfend 
That I should learn allegiance from a page! 

52 



THE ROSE 



Eustace. Then Is It true? The rumor 
spread last night, 
And over which the court's so much amazed? 
Richard. The court had better wisely hold 
its tongue. 
The rumor that you speak of I've not heard. 

— They dare to cackle when one's back is 

turned ! — 
But I do leave to-morrow with the dawn, 
It is the Queen's will, therefore Is it right. 
I go to join a band of gentlemen 

— And rogues — that sails to seek the colonies. 
There to maintain a province for the Queen, 
Which it is hoped will grow to something great, 
Another kingdom overseas for her, 

In that new land of wondrous fair report. 

\_He walks over to the fireplace and stands gaz- 
ing at the dying embers with his back to 
Eustace. ] 
Eustace [following him^. 
Do you remain forever in that place? 

Richard. What time I shall return is not yet 
named. 
There will be talk concerning it and me [turns 

round to Eustace']^ 
Other fair names perchance will be dragged in. 
[He strides up to Eustace and grasps him al- 
most roughly by the shoulder.^ 
Boy, gossip is a vile worm crawling thick, 
Whenever you do find it, trample it ! 

Eustace. My lord, when I hear aught 
against your name. 
Trust me, I will defend It properly. 

[They go out as Eustace speaks. Silvia steals 

53 



SHORT PLAYS 



in through the curtained entrance on the left. 
She has evidently heard voices and is listen- 
ing. She crosses to the center of the room, 
stops and comes back, stands about as if 
thinking, finally glides to the bench in front 
of the fire and sits down looking at the em- 
bers, leaning over towards the fire with her 
hands clasped in front of her. She sits a 
few moments in utter silence, making a tab- 
leau, then Eustace returns through the cen- 
ter door.~\ 
Silvia [looking up and smiling]. 
Ah, Eustace, I was hoping you would come. 
Eustace [dropping his head and looking 
down]. 
You draw me always to you when you will. 

[She regards him smiling then, after a pause, 

says :] 
Silvia. I feel so strangely lone to-night and 
sad. 
What night is it? 

[Eustace has had his guitar in his hand. He 
now leans it against the wall at the back of 
the room and comes over towards her.] 
Eustace. It is St. Agnes' Eve. 

Silvia. Ah, then, poor saint, her soul must 
walk abroad. 
And that is why the wild winds wail so shrill. 
And why the clouds go by like trailing shrouds, 
And why the elm trees sway as in despair. 
And why I feel foreboding and unrest. 
On such a night I think of country roads 
And deep beech woods with ghosts behind each 
tree, 

54 



THE ROSE 



And eerie hooting owls and far away 
The fearsome howling of a dismal dog, 
And on a lonesome bough a robin cold, 
Despite his orange feathers. In the wind. 
On such a night I'm fain to wander forth 
And join them In their wild performances. 

Eustace. You like a night like this? 

Silvia. No, but I feel 

Its magic grip my heart. 

Eustace [he comes closer]. It is because 
You are a part of all the witchery 
That sways the trees and beasts and hearts of 
men. 

Silvia. But hearts of boys come not within my 
sway. 

Eustace. They are already yours, contented 
with 
The honey-dew of pleasure from your smile. 

Silvia. Ah, Eustace, what a courtier you will 
make. 
And what a wooer when you come to woo ! 
Already I grow envious of her. 
And grudge the pretty sonnets and the songs 
You'll make for her and sing on summer nights. 
On summer nights ! 

[She looks into the dying fire and shivers.] 
Ah, listen to the wind ! 

Eustace. Can one be jealous of one's own 
fair self? 

Silvia [turning to him and smiling sweetly]. 
Dear boy, you'll love again and yet again 
A hundred times before you come to wed. 
You are my friend and I can count on that, 
For I do know and trust your true young heart. 

55 



SHORT PLAYS 



Eustace. Of our two hearts mine's older by a 
day, 
Though It hved not till yours began to beat. 
Silvia. You must not talk so, surely not to- 
night, 
When phantoms ride upon the wind outside 
And gossip slips and slides within the court. 
They talk and talk and ever still they talk 
And tell of this one now and now of that. 
To-day I think they meddle with my name — 
Tell me what you have heard. 

Eustace [trying to evade her and make light of 

2/]. I've not heard much. 

Silvia. But I would know that much — Tm 

curious. 
Eustace. Therefore you should not be so 

gratified. 
Silvia. I'm also serious. Eustace, tell me, 
please. 
'TIs best that gossip come, if come It must, 
Upon a friendly not a spiteful tongue. 

Eustace. They say the Queen has heard and 
thinks It true 
Sir Richard loves you and that you return 
His deep affection yet an hundredfold. 

\She scans his face in deep earnestness and 
a77iazement, then slowly turns her eyes away 
and gazes straight in front of her in deep 
honesty. She speaks low as if to herself.'] 
Silvia. He does not look at me, he scarcely 
knows 
I live — then how could I — 

Eustace. They say the Queen 

Herself cares for my lord and will not let 

56 



THE ROSE 



Another have his love, so she has planned 
To send him out of England, overseas. 

[Silvia has not heard this before and takes it 
in slowly, wonderingly, abstractedly. She 
looks at Eustace and finally down at her own 
hands lying quietly in her lap. Then she 
speaks low.~\ 
Silvia. And I the small unconscious cause of 
this? 
[After another pause.'] Why does she not send 

me away from court? 
No one would miss me — I would gladly go. 
Jealous of me — she, the great Queen, of me? 
To send him overseas for doing naught. 
Who's needed here. — It is unjust, unjust! [A 
long pause.'] 
Eustace. Your going from the court would do 
no good, 
My lord would follow you — if that he cared. 
[Another pause, Eustace watching her.] 
Eustace. 'Tis not your fault nor does it lie 
with you 
To mend it. Worry not. The Queen's the 
Queen. 
[He is silently watching in the next pause un- 
til finally she looks up and speaks in a dif- 
ferent tone.] 
You are so good to wear my little rose. 

Silvia [brightening]. 'Tis a good little rose 
and very fair, 
The virtue's in the flower and not in me. 
Sing me the song again you sang last night. 

[Eustace goes and gets his guitar, tunes it and 
sings the song:] 

57 



SHORT PLAYS 



Eustace [singing] , 

Ah, take the rose, 
Its leaves unclose 
A thousand tender thoughts of thee, 
Thy beauty rare, thy gentle grace, 
Thy fair simplicity. 

Ah, take the rose. 
For with it goes. 
My love, my tender love of thee. 
And may it find a little place 
Within thy memory. 

[5fr Richard returns and parts the curtains at 
the center door. Silvia starts to her feet 
and stands waiting for his advance. He 
has stopped at seeing Silvia and Eustace to- 
gether. Eustace, who has had his hack to 
the door, turns and drops behind Silvia on 
the other side from the other man. Rich- 
ard takes a stride or two forward, at first 
he looks from one to the other haughtily, 
then his gaze remains fixed on Silvia.'] 
Richard. I fear I interrupt a pretty scene 
Of love-making and soulful serenade. 

[^Eustace exclaims and steps more into the 

background.]^ 
Silvia {becoming more dignified and with a 
shade of anger]. 
Is it a sin, my lord, to sing a song? 
I thought the music sweet and think so still 
Despite the disapproval of my lord. 
{More lightly.] Perhaps some weightier matter 
brought the frown. 
58 



THE ROSE 



We'll deem the notes of music innocent 
Until pronounced quite guilty by the court. 
You are the judge, my lord, be merciful! 

Richard. 'Tis true a weightier matter brought 
the frown. 
I sought you everywhere and find you here — 

[As if breaking off the thread of his thought.} 
It is essential that I speak with you 
Of something imminent and bearing great 
Import to me. Eustace, by your leave. 

[For the first time since his entrance he shifts 
his gaze to Eustace and his look is one of 
command. He makes a gesture of dismis- 
sal. Eustace hows low and with dignity 
and grace goes out through the curtains at 
the center door. Silvia looks after Eustace, 
then silently and intently regards Richard, 
who drops his eyes to the floor and is agi- 
tated. Then he raises his head and they 
gaze at each other a few moments before he 
speaks.'} 
Richard. You made it plain just now that 
what I like 
Or disapprove has little weight with you. 

Silvia \yery gently']. You have no right to 
draw an inference 
So strangely strained and twisted from my 

words. 
I only said I thought the music sweet. 

Richard \_with heat}. And meant you like the 

singer passing well. 
Silvia [very low and gently}. I do, my lord, 
but it is quite unjust 
For you to misinterpret what I say. 

59 



SHORT PLAYS 



Richard. Ah, can you flout me with a page's 
love? 
I came upon him wooing you — 

Silvia. My lord, 

You were unkind to Eustace and to me, 
You were so sharp with him and as for me. 
You have no right to question my intent. 
We were small playmates back in childhood days, 
And now our friendship's haply here renewed 
After an interval of separate years. 

Richard. I knew not your acquaintance was so 
old. 
The love you bear each other is not new? 

Silvia. I almost think you wilfully mistake. 
He brings to mind the little girl I was, 
And country lanes and springtime's deep blue sky 
And robins with their music wistful-gay 
And apple-orchards pink with fairy bloom 
And little lone cold brooks so zealous in 
Their little busy, pushing, plashing way. 

Richard. But he did sing a love-song to you 
now? 

Silvia. I did not sing it back again to him. 
Lovers are many, ballads and sonnets grow 
Like small green poplar leaves, a myriad. 

Richard. And drop the soonest in the first 
strong wind. 
'Tis not a night for tender leaves of spring. 

Silvia. Therefore the more should I not cher- 
ish them? 
On such a night as this when the fierce wind 
Drives in the cold from underneath the door, 
Forcing a rigor up into the soul, 

60 



THE ROSE 



When hearts seem frozen like the dull hard 

ground, 
And portents cry and clamor to be heard, 
One longs for sympathy and memory 
Of summer fields and days when life was glad 
And warm with gentleness and simple faith. 
[She droops into the corner of the bench to- 
wards him. He comes closer and gazes at 
her sear chin gly.'\ 
Richard. Is life here at the court unkind to 

you? 
Silvia. Ah, no, the court has many ladies good 
And gracious gentlemen, — only to-night 
I feel a little child unfit to cope 
With difficult problems life must bring to all. 
[His voice becomes very gentle as he says:^ 
Richard. Have you encountered problems 

then so soon? 
Silvia. Questions of choice come early, do not 
they? 
Questions of self-effacement follow soon. 

[He looks at her surprised. She waits a few 
moments, hoping he will speak. He does 
not and she goes o/z.] 
Silvia. A problem still more difficult to solve 
It is when one would very quickly choose 
To cancel self but may not since the right 
Lies with my masters, only, not with me. 

[He sits down by her on the bench but still 

does not speak.'] 
Silvia. You sought me out with something you 

would say? 
Richard. It is so hard to say — hard to begin, 
6i 



SHORT PLAYS 



And having once begun, I fear I'll tell 
Too much. My heart is very, very full. 

Silvia. Perhaps I know a little. [Looking at 
him timidly.'] 

Richard. Do you know 

That I am sent away? 

Silvia. Yes, I have heard. 

Richard. The Queen will give no reason — I 
will not 
Credit the silly reason others give. 
My plans are all o'erturned, my dearest hopes 
Are fallen like an infant's house of blocks. 
Pm torn asunder 'twixt my loyalty 
And duty to myself and to my love. 
Why should she send me, give no cause for It? 

[He rises and paces up and down for a few 
moments,] 
Ah, Silvia, I walk as In a dream ! 
It is so sudden, so unnatural. 
Only to-night she told me, though I heard 
The rumor flying through the court this morn. 

Silvia. 'Tis true, then, from the Queen's own 
lips, 'tis true? 

Richard. She sent for me, I had an audience 
A few hours since. 

[He walks across the room, she watching him 
silently. After a pause he continues.] 
She was not like herself. 
She seemed secretive, furtive, strangely cold. 
She questioned me on subjects various. 
And foreign to our thought, but finally 
She said the word, she said that I must go. 

Silvia. What reason did she give? 

Richard. I told you, none. 

62 



THE ROSE 



Silvia. But could you mildly yield to her un- 
just? 
Richard. Not so, I mildly yield my rights to 
none. 
How could you think I would? But you forget 
She Is the Queen. Ah, Heaven, she Is the 

Queen! 
I have said all I could — argued — prayed — 
My fealty binds me — for the time I yield. 
The expedition sails In early spring, 
Until that time I'll be away from here. 

\^He stands gazing at her with all his love in 
his eyes.} 
I may not ever see your face again. 
I go to-morrow with the early dawn. 
[Silvia starts quickly and exclaims.'] 
Silvia. To-morrow with the dawn? Ah, not 

so soon! 
Richard. I have come here to-night to say 
good-by, 
To tell you that I love you. 

Silvia [looking up at him entreatingly']. 

Do not go ! 
Richard. You care a little, then? 
Silvia. All that I may. 

[She rises and stands leaning against the hack 
of the bench. He starts toward her with an 
exclamation, then stops, puts the hack of his 
hand over his eyes a moment, then passes 
it over on one side of his brow.] 
Richard. It Is not right for me to take your 
love, 
Not right for me to have your promises. 
But only right for me to give you mine. 

63 



SHORT PLAYS 



I go for her, but leave my heart with you, 
Not with the Queen — my love Is all for you, 
My thoughts from far away will be with you, 
My longing to return will be for you. 
Dear Love, I will come back again to you, 
My wish, my will, my life will be for that. 
Ah, let me look at you one moment more 
And let my sharpened wit now etch the sight. 
Of you as you are now upon my brain: 
My eyes are always seeing you — I know 
Just how you stand, the silent gentleness 
Each gesture has. My fancy adds you to 
Scenes here or anywhere — the firm white wrist, 
The clear and honest glory of your eyes. 
This special vision will I keep to yield 
Me solace at the end of weary day 
When night has come and I may dream of you. 
[After a moment's pause and with a slight 
change of tone.'] 
If you will give me something I may wear 
Of yours — 

Silvia [taking a step or tzvo toward him im- 
pulsively]. 

I would give you anything. 
[She takes off a cross and chain and is about to 
put it about his neck, but he stops her, tak- 
ing it out of her hands and replacing it about 
her own.] 
Richard. No, not the cross, something quite 
valueless 
Except for what It means to you and me. 
Something more delicate that I may keep 
Even If It fades — you'll let me take the rose? 
[She gives it to him, he bows over it, kneeU 



THE ROSE 



ing and kissing her hand. Then he rises, 
takes her in his ar^ns for a moment, re- 
leases her and swiftly, without ever look- 
ing hack, he goes out through the cur- 
tains at the hack of the room. She is left 
desolate, standing looking after him. From 
the left and far away Eustace is heard sing- 
ing. Silvia goes to the bench and drops 
into it, hiding away in the corner as far as 
possible, pale and chill, holding the cross to 
her lips as she gazes at the embers almost 
fallen to ashes. Eustace is heard singing.^ 
Eustace. 

Ah, take the rose, 
For with It goes 
My love, my tender love of thee, 
And may It find a little place 
Within thy memory ! 



^1 



LUCK? 
A FARCE COMEDY. 

CHARACTERS AS THEY APPEAR. 

NORAH, a maid at the Vaughn^s, 

Evelyn Vaughn, engaged to Roger Campbell. 

Dr. Roger Campbell, a young surgeon. 

Miss Wright. 

Mrs. Fulsom. 

Miss Carmichael. 

Miss Bailey. 

Mrs. Young. 

Mr. Mellicent, a young clergyman. 

Dr. Wilson, a professor of psychology. 

First Policeman. 

Second Policeman. 

Peter, the Campbell's man. 

scenes. 

Act I. Library at the Vaughn's. The 29th 
of October, afternoon. 

Act IL Home of Mrs. Maxwell. The 30th 
of October, afternoon. 

Act in. Tea room of the Beechmont Country 
Club. The 31st of October, after- 
noon. 

Act IV. Library at the Vaughn's. The 31st 
of October, evening. 

67 



SHORT PLAYS 



[The library in the Vaughn home. The 
room is furnished in heavy mahogany and 
has low bookcases around the walls with a 
few fine prints hanging above them. There 
is a big table a little to one side of the 
center of the room, covered with books and 
magazines, and on it, too, a big electric 
lamp. A chair is at either side of the table. 
There are other chairs, a couch, a heavy teak- 
wood tabouret in a corner of the front part 
of the room. On a bookcase is a Japanese jar 
having on it the three wise monkeys of Japan. 
It is overturned and its contents of rose- 
petal pot-pourri scattered. A rosy-cheeked 
Irish maid enters through the curtains at the 
door on the left side of the room towards the 
back, and rushes diagonally across to the 
tabouret. She pants wildly and is carrying a 
huge jar of pink Killarney roses. She gets the 
jar safely on the tabouret, then slips on the 
polished floor and sprawls awkwardly at full 
length.'] 

NoRAH [giving a shriek and slowly getting 
herself up]. Ach! Holy Mother be thanked 
'twas me an' not the roses ! 'Tis the fairies be 
up to their old thrlcks, trlppin' ye an' sich. At 
Hallowe'en they do be playin' mad pranks and 
givin' iverybody bad luck. \_She goes through 
the room straightening things, picks up itews- 
papers that have been scattered over the floor, 
arranges the pillows on the couch, and so on. 
She goes to the bookcase and begins putting back 
the spilled rose leaves and as she does so a young 

68 



LUCK? 



lady carrying a little black kitten comes in through 
the curtains at the same entrance.'] 

Evelyn. What on earth were you doing, 
Norah? 

NoRAH. 'Twas the jar knocked over, miss. 
I surmise Timmy must have did it. 

Evelyn. But that httle jar turned over didn't 
make the awful crash I heard a moment ago. 

Norah. No, miss, the crash wasn't the jar, 
that was me — yet sure 'twas a jar, too. [She 
looks rueful and rubs her hip.} But I think 
Timmy must have did this. 

Evelyn [to the kitten]. Did you do this, 
you httle de'il? Maybe the fairies were up to 
pranks, Norah. It is nearly Hallowe'en, you 
know, and they seem to be more lively at this time 
of year than at any other. Do you believe In 
fairies, Norah? 

Norah. There is some as don't, miss, but as 
for me — [shaking her head and crossing herself 
as one should say '^ I know too much, I am too 
wise not to believe^']. 

Evelyn. So do I, Norah. I believe in 
fairies, though perhaps mine are not just exactly 
like yours. There are fairies of the mind as well 
as of the eyes, you know. 

Norah [looking very mystified and rolling her 
eyes from one corner of the room to the other 
as if expecting to see something untoward]. No, 
miss, I didn't. 

Evelyn. Well, there are. And when you 
come to study experimental psychology and va- 
rieties of hypnotic experience and especially 
esoteric Buddhism, you'll reahze it. 

69 



SHORT PLAYS 



NoRAH. Saints preserve us, miss! It seems 
to me as though the httle old Irish fairies could 
do enough harm without addin' any such new- 
fangled ones to help thim in their little diviltries. 

Evelyn. They aren't new — only stupid peo- 
ple are just beginning to find them out. [To the 
kitten.'] Timmy, if you're going to be destruc- 
tive, you'll have to go. Society doesn't harbor 
destructive little animals. Norah, didn't you say 
your aunt would be glad to have him? Well, 
you can take him home to her whenever you have 
time. 

Norah. If I was you, miss, I wouldn't give 
him away. 'Tis great good luck to have a black 
cat follow you the way he did, an' the people 
that owned him said you could have him, so he's 
a free gift as well, and it's bad luck to put away 
a gift. 

Evelyn. I like him, bless his little heart! 
[She strokes and pets him.'] But the family 
doesn't approve of him even in his state of inno- 
cence, and if he should break a vase or some- 
thing goodness knows what would happen. No, 
he'll have to go. He'll have a good home with 
your aunt and be just as happy there as with me, 
and I think you'd better take him at once be- 
fore I get any fonder of him. [Holding the kit- 
ten up in her hands and dangling his little legs 
in front of her.] If you become too attached 
to good luck, it makes you soft so you can't stand 
bad luck. I like people with lots of pluck who 
can bear bad luck. 

Norah. Oh, as for me, I wisht nobody would 
never have bad luck at all, at all, miss. 

70 



LUCK? 



[Evelyn goes out through the same door, car- 
rying the kitten. Norah has stopped re- 
spectfully while her mistress talked to her; 
she now finishes putting the rose leaves hack 
in the jar, takes the corner of her apron to 
dust it and places it hack where it stood, and 
then she goes out the same door. She has 
not more than disappeared when the door- 
bell is heard to ring. Norah appears again 
at the same door and passes through the 
room to answer the hell. In a second a 
young man enters, followed by the maid. 
He looks very gay and happy, has his hat 
under his arm and is beginning to take off 
his gloves.'] 
Campbell. She's at home, is she, Norah? 
Norah [archly]. I would be thinkin' per- 
haps she knew you might be comin', sir. 

Campbell [putting his hat on one end of the 
bookcase]. No, she didn't, for I didn't tele- 
phone her. 

Norah. Maybe she knew, anyhow, sir. 
Campbell. No, she couldn't possibly. For 
I didn't know myself till two minutes before I 
started. 

Norah. Perhaps she surmised you was com- 
in' before the idea entered your own head, your- 
self, sir. 

Campbell. Oh, fiddlesticks! [He has been 
walking about in a sort of happy nervousness, 
pulling off the fingers of his gloves.] That 
sounds like the nonsense so-called educated peo- 
ple talk nowadays. Whoever put such an idiotic 
notion into your pretty head? [He stands in 

71 



SHORT PLAYS 



front of her, smiling and pulls a half-dollar out 
of his pocket, holding both hands behind him.~\ 
Which hand will you take? [Then, extending 
them, the right hand holding the money and the 
left hand holding his gloves.] But pshaw! No- 
body could ever give you the mitten. [He gives 
her the money, waving the gloves in the air to. 
illustrate his joke.} 

NoRAH [with delightful coyness]. Sure, 
you're as handsome a gintleman as you're glner- 
ous. [She has a rich Irish brogue.] 

Campbell. Norah, such kisses as yours 
ought never to have been wasted on a stone, but 
evidently you have kissed the Blarney Stone. 
My thanks to It. Now, run and tell her I'm 
here. 

[Norah goes out through the curtains at the 
left back door. The young man puts his 
gloves together and places them on the 
tabouret under the roses while he leans 
down to smell them and smile. He has evi- 
dently sent them. He walks about with his 
hands behind him and then thrusts them into 
his pockets, whistling softly. He goes to 
the low bookcase and picks up the Japanese 
jar. Finally when he is on the opposite side 
of the room Evelyn enters through the same 
left door. She is dressed in blue, is flushed 
and joyous. He turns and strides forward 
and they meet considerably on her side of 
the center of the room. He catches her 
hands, swings them to and fro, beaming, 
then throws them around his shoulders, 
takes her in his arms and kisses her. He re- 
72 



LUCK? 



leases her, holding her from him mid regard- 
ing her with delight. '\ 

Campbell. Isn't it a bully day? It's so fine 
I had to come. It's a funny thing that when- 
ever the day is particularly fine I want to see you. 

Evelyn. I thought you said whenever it was 
rainy you wanted to see me. 

Campbell. I do. It's a peculiar effect the 
weather has on me — whatever it is, it makes me 
want to see you! \^They both laugh.'] 

Evelyn. You crazy boy, I knew you were 
coming. [^She sits down at the left side of the 
table.] 

Campbell. Oh, that's not hard. You'd be 
pretty sure to guess right about that nine times 
out of ten, wouldn't you? [He laughs.] Don't 
draw telepathic inferences from the conduct of 
a man who is in love with you. [He sits down 
on a corner of the table nearest her.] How have 
you managed to put in the day without me? 

Evelyn [in playful satire]. I've lived on the 
hope of seeing you. 

Campbell [regarding her critically]. You 
don't look as if you had pined enough. 

Evelyn. I'm the kind that doesn't show trou- 
ble. And beside, the great happiness of your 
presence has driven away now all the traces of 
sorrow. 

Campbell [grozving serious]. Evelyn, you 
talk as if you were making fun of our love. 

Evelyn. Why, dea — 

Campbell [quickly]. Say it! 

Evelyn. Roger! 

Campbell. No, the other ! 
73 



SHORT PLAYS 



Evelyn. Dearest! iWith a little gulp and 
smiling side-glance at him.'] You began it, 
^He immediately slides over and sits on the arm 
of her chair.] Oh, please don't! Some one 
may come in any minute. 

Campbell. I don't care if they do. 

Evelyn. I do. You don't know how they 
tease me about you, anyway. 

Campbell. I hke them to tease me. I like 
them to talk about you all the time. 

Evelyn. Do get up! 

Campbell [rising impatiently]. Well, then, 
let's go for a walk. [Looking at his watch.] I 
haven't much time to spare. It will do you 
good after sitting here fretting for me all these 
live-long hours. [He gives her a funny, quizzi- 
cal look and grins.] Honestly, Evelyn, it is a 
glorious day. You never saw such a blue sky — 
it's more bewitching than ever in spring. I came 
along under some golden and flaming trees and 
they seemed like autumn's votive offering to the 
spirit of fire. Lord, but they were glorious ! 

Evelyn [smiling appreciation]. Ld love to 
go, only I have a little thing I want to give you 
first. 

Campbell [with delight and deep emotion], 
A present! Bless your heart! 

[She runs out of the room and is gone only a 
few moments. He stands about smiling. 
He is very evidently in the seventh heaven 
where dwell young men in the first days of 
their engagement. She returns and stands 
with her hands behind her. They both 



74 



LUCK? 



laugh, gaze at each other and are ecstatically 
happy. \ 

Evelyn. Something for you. Now, shut 
your eyes and see what the queen will send you. 
{Campbell obeys. She takes his left hand and 
slips on the little finger a very large silver ring 
with a Swastika cross in light blue enamel on 
the top of it. He opens his eyes, holds up his 
hand and gazes abstractedly at the ring, then at 
her, in a thoroughly non-plussed way. She 
smiles at him but he does not smile back. He 
looks at the ring. Finally he speaks. 1 

Campbell. Evelyn, you don't really expect 
me to wear that? [Holding up his hand and 
wriggling his little finger.'] 

Evelyn. Why, surely, why else would I give 
it to you? {Her smile has died away and she 
seems a little chilled.'] 

Campbell {still holding up his hand in an 
awkward fashion and speaking with a tone and 
manner slightly patronizing]. Any sort of ring 
on a man is bad enough, but a silver ring set with 
blue enamel is the inappropriate allowed to 
bawl from a housetop. 

Evelyn {disappointed, but trying for an 
understanding]. Oh, I agree with you about 
rings in general but this is different. 

Campbell. It's worse. 

Evelyn. It is unique and symbolical. It 
isn't like wearing a diamond ring. I wouldn't 
ask you to go about adorned like a drummer. 

Campbell. No, but I'd be moderately incon- 
spicuous then, almost as if I wore a hat. Peo- 
ple have grown tolerant of misapplied diamonds. 

75. 



SHORT PLAYS 



But the Swastika swarms like an invasion of Goths 
still untamed. You want me to join the horde 
of belt-buckles and hat-pins. 

Evelyn. You contradict yourself. 

Campbell. I'm too amazed to be logical. I 
can't see how you would expect me to wear a 
thing like this. It's as prevalent as peanuts. 

Evelyn. A thing that has intrinsic beauty is 
not hurt by popularity. 

Campbell. Oh, intrinsic beauty is all right. 
But you'll have to admit that this thing has the 
extraordinary combination of the qualities of 
oddity and popularity. 

\_Evelyn does not answer hut goes over to the 
conch and sits down with a sigh as if to 
wait patiently till his argumentative mood 
has passed. He marches up and down the 
room, looking at the ring every now and 
then, holding up for inspection and wriggling 
his little finger.'] 

Campbell. Why did you choose a thing so 
strange? Why is the extraordinary always an 
excuse to you for breaking conventions and sane 
principles? Why has the caviare so peculiar a 
fascination for a fastidious young woman like 
you? 

Evelyn [growing a little dignified and icy]. 
I was not aware it had. Nobody ever told me 
before that I broke conventions and sane prin- 
ciples. 

Campbell. Nobody was ever so honest be- 
fore with you. I can't understand how a girl 
of such good family, so well brought up, can be 
so unconventional and care so much for the queer. 

76 



LUCK? 



I suppose you picked this up just because it was 
queer. 

Evelyn. Perhaps my family have been too 
proper and that's why I'm not. But there's noth- 
ing queer in this. 

Campbell. There isn't, eh? Me wearing a 
blue enamel ring! 

Evelyn. A man ought to be independent 
enough to wear anything. And, beside, I don't 
think it's very kind in you to think I would 
choose something for you because it was queer. 
It was the symbolism of it that attracted me. 

Campbell. There you go again! [Stopping 
short and gesturing with irritation.'] Why can't 
you leave symbolism to priests and painters? It 
is extremely absurd and what is more and worse 
it's unsanitary. 

Evelyn. You can wash this ring in carbolic 
acid every day, if you want to. 

Campbell [very much exasperated]. Why 
not just leave it in a bottle of alcohol and only 
pretend to be wearing it — that would be the 
superlative example of your symbolism. 

Evelyn. Or of your cynicism. 

Campbell. But it is the principle of the 
thing. Why do you — 

Evelyn. Roger, we have gone all over this 
several times before. 

Campbell. Yes, I know we have. But here 
it is all up in the air again. You are supposed 
to be intelligent, you are intelligent, and yet you 
behave sometimes as if you believed in the most 
flagrant and idiotic superstitions that even Norah 
would laugh at. 

77 



SHORT PLAYS 



Evelyn [unmoved]. Would she? 

Roger [hotly]. Certainly. Well, then, why 
don't you deny it? Why don't you say some- 
thing? 

Evelyn. I wonder. 

Campbell. I don't understand it. I don't 
understand how you can combine the two quali- 
ties — how you can hate conventionalities as you 
do and yet worship all sorts of puerile and idiotic 
symbolism. 

Evelyn. Perhaps nobody is consistent. 
You weren't a moment ago. [She sits staring at 
the floor.] 

Campbell [standing still and looking at her]. 
And even now you are not retreating from your 
position in the least. 

Evelyn [opening her eyes wide and looking at 
him calmly]. Why should I? 

Campbell [with a trifle of embarrassment]. 
Well, one might expect you to try to see things 
as I do. 

Evelyn. I think I do generally. 

Campbell [hotly]. I don't think you do at 
all. I don't think you try to. 

Evelyn [slowly]. I am wondering. I am 
trying to think why once in a while you should 
take these unaccountable fits of obstinacy and 
belligerence — why you should become so diffi- 
cult — 

Campbell [quickly]. To manage, I sup- 
pose. So you try to manage me, do you ? Well, 
on the other hand, I try to excuse it in you, but 
really I can not understand why you do not en- 
deavor to see things sensibly and to overcome 

78 



LUCK? 



your taste for humbug. It is the principle of 
the thing. [He sits dow?t on the left side of the 
table.] 

Evelyn. That is exactly what I was think- 
ing of. Of course the ring is nothing — it is of 
silver, of no value, but it is pretty, artistic, 
unique, and I was attracted to it for that. Then 
the Swastika cross on it means good luck. But 
it was something more — the silver and the blue 
enamel meant the blue sky and the grey clouds, 
the sky we have always looked to and that was 
a sign between us when we were separated from 
each other. So the ring was doubly symbolic 
with a peculiar meaning to you and me that 
nothing else could have. 

Campbell [he has listened to her speech hut 
then catches sight of the ring again, shakes his 
head, rises and speaks rapidly]. Can't you see 
how ridiculous it is for me to wear a thing like 
this? Imagine me demonstrating anatomy to a 
class of medical students in the dissecting room. 
Can't you see the picture? I with my knife 
in one hand [gesturing with his right hand], 
and this piece of superstition and folly [holding 
up the left hand with the ring on it] on the other? 
Can't you see how ridiculous it is? 

Evelyn. No, I do not see that it is ridiculous 
at all! To me it is merely beautiful. 

Campbell. It is ridiculous. It is absurd, 
silly, puerile. And it is all that in you that 
makes you want to do such things, and want to 
make me do them. Pshaw! You ought to 
know better, Evelyn. A girl of your sense! 
You ought to have outgrown such folly. You 

79 



SHORT PLAYS 



are forgetting your position. You are forget- 
ting that you are grown up and engaged to be 
married. You are forgetting my position. You 
are permitting yourself to be silly and childish 
and worse — you are actually indulging and en- 
couraging yourself In It. \He strides about, ex- 
asperated, angry, and hot. She sits still watch- 
ing him from her seat without turning her head. 
At last she says very quietly.'] 

Evelyn. Will you wear the ring? 

Campbell [surprised into austere bluntness]. 
No, certainly not. 

Evelyn. Then — then you might as well 
give it back and all that goes with It. 

Campbell [in a tone of surprise and alarm}. 
Surely you don't mean that? 

Evelyn. I think I do. You said it was a 
matter of principle. 

Campbell. It Is. You are asking me not 
only to seem but to feel absurd for a silly whim 
of yours. 

Evelyn [rising]. And you are refusing to do 
the first little thing you are asked to do for my 
sake. 

Campbell. You are asking too much. 

Evelyn. You are refusing too much. 

Campbell. Am I to understand that you 
really mean what you are saying? 

Evelyn. You have given me the Impression 
that you meant what you were saying. 

Campbell. But this can't be final. 

Evelyn. You are making it so. 

Campbell. No, by Jove, I'm not — you are. 

Evelyn. You don't need to raise your voice 
80 



LUCK? 



so. I think you said you would not wear the 
ring? 

Campbell. Of course. 

Evelyn. Then there is no more need for 
further talk about It. 

\_Campbell stands a moment in uncertainty^ 
then pulls the ring off his finger with some 
difficulty.] 

Campbell. Do you really mean It? 

Evelyn. I do. 

\_He goes to the bookcase and gets his hat, 
turns and faces her.] 

Campbell [with perturbation]. Good-by. 

Evelyn. Good-by. 

[Campbell walks out of the door at the right 
— he has forgotten his gloves. After he is 
off the stage she goes across to the roses and 
stands looking at the7n. Campbell returns, 
standing in the doorway at the right.] 

Campbell. You will maybe think this over 
and If for any reason whatever you may want 
me — 

Evelyn [not turning round]. I shall not 
want you. 

Campbell. Oh, very well, then. Good-by. 

Evelyn. Good-by. 

[He stands looking at her a moment reluc- 
tantly and dubiously. Then he goes out at 
right. After she is sure he has gone, she 
goes to the table and picks up the ring. 
She holds it up, regarding it with a vast 
malevolence, pressing her lips close together. 
Finally she takes it to the Japanese jar and 
drops it in. After that she slowly goes to 
8l 



SHORT PLAYS 



the tabouret where the roses stand, throws 

herself on the floor under the roses and in 

a hiiddled-iip heap, a rose pulled down to 

her face, she cries in desolation. A noise 

of footsteps is heard at the left. Evelyn 

calls out in a tear-choked voice.'] 

Evelyn. Oh, Norah, I have changed my 

mind about Timmy. I am not going to give him 

away. 

Norah. Oh, but I just come back from tak- 
in' him home, miss. He's gone. 

[The curtain goes down with Evelyn bowed 
below the roses, weeping.] 



ACT II. 

[Scene: A room in the home of Mrs, 
Marshall, who is giving a tea. It is a pretty 
room, with many jars of flowers about and the 
ladies in their reception gowns make the scene 
gay. There is a table with a punch-bowl, cups, 
and so on.] 

Miss Wright \_coming in]. Nell, I want you 
to meet my friend, Miss Carmichael — Mrs. Ful- 
som. 

Mrs. Fulsom [fulso^nely]. Are you the 
Miss Carmichael of Chicago? 

Miss Carmichael. Well, I don't know 
whether I am or not. I am from Chicago. 

Mrs. Fulsom. Oh, then, you are. I hear 
you are perfectly divinely, absolutely unscrupu- 
lous in the clever things you say. 

82 



LUCK? 



Miss Carmichael. Chicago is a breezy 
place, but I hope I'm not such a wind-bag. 

Mrs. Fulsom. Oh, what is more exhilarating 
than a sharp tongue ! 

Miss Carmichael. A sharp conscience, per- 
haps. But a conscience is a spiritual appendix 
nowadays. 

Mrs. Fulsom. I love clever talk. 

Miss Carmichael. One only talks when 
there is nothing doing. When people are really 
acting there is no room for conversation. 

Mrs. Fulsom. Then you will talk here. 
Things are awfully dull. 

Miss Carmichael. I rather fancy things are 
happening here. Then one doesn't talk much. 

Miss Bailey. Have you heard that Evelyn's 
engagement to Roger Campbell is broken? 

Mrs. Fulsom [with great excitement^. Yes! 
They were coming to my house last night for 
some bridge and after dinner she sent a note to 
say that she had a headache, and he had his of- 
fice girl telephone that he was called away on a 
case. So of course, I knew! I had to ask some 
other people and naturally was compelled to ex- 
plain the situation. 

Miss Carmichael. Situations that aren't 
self-explanatory are worse than situations that ex- 
plain themselves. 

Mrs. Fulsom. Perhaps that Is the way it 
leaked out. I would be so sorry to have it come 
through me, but I suppose it had to come through 
somebody. I must regard myself as the unwill- 
ing agent. 

Miss Wright. I wonder what was the mat- 
83 



SHORT PLAYS 



ter? But they never seemed suited to each 
other, to me. They are both so hot-headed. 

Mrs. Fulsom. Evelyn doesn't seem so. 

Miss Wright. But she is. People who are 
alike oughtn't to marry. 

Miss Bailey. But if they are very different, 
what will their children be? 

Mrs. Fulsom. Oh, I wonder if that isn't 
what produces dual personality? 

Miss Carmichael. Oh, dear, omnipresent 
eugenics! Must it even invade an afternoon 
tea? 

Miss Wright. I wasn't thinking of that. 
But it takes a woman who is genial and jolly and 
serene to get on with a man who is quick-tem- 
pered. 

Miss Bailey. One like you, my dear? 

Mrs. Fulsom [after an uncomfortable mo- 
ment^. I believe the scientists have decided that 
the little god Love is no proper eugenist. 

Miss Carmichael. He is the greatest! 

Miss Bailey. I heard Roger had dreadful 
luck in his golf match to-day. He played his 
semi-finals at noon on account of some patient or 
other, and he was almost beaten. 

Miss Wright. Why, he has been in dandy 
form and has been playing a ripping game. 

Miss Bailey. I heard he lost three of his pa- 
tients last night. Maybe that unnerved him. 

Mrs. Fulsom. I should think it might. 
What a crush Sallie Marshall always manages to 
get at her teas ! 

[Enter Mrs. Young ^ an almost elderly lady 

84 



LUCK? 



with grey curls, and a thin, pale young rector in 
her tow.^ 

Mrs. Young. What a delightful oasis — 

Miss Wright. In the desert of Sarah! 

Mrs. Young [tapping Miss IFright on the 
cheek with her fan^. Oh, you naughty punstress 
— or would you say punstrette ? [She smiles 
around the group with a graceful pride in her 
own humility. Dr. Wilson enters from the 
right.] 

Dr. Wilson. Good afternoon, ladies. I 
saw Mrs. Young headed for somewhere that I 
knew would be delightful, a cosy nook, a shady 
dell, an overflowing spring of frappe, perhaps 
something cool and delicious with nymphs and 
goddesses, so I followed. I am rewarded for 
my intelligence. 

Miss Wright. You are not warm to-day? 

Dr. Wilson. There is such a throng in the 
drawing-room. Sometimes I almost think that 
people hurry in haste to repine in pleasure. 

Mrs. Young. Oh, you witty man ! 

Miss Wright. I was glad enough to get into 
the house. Coming over in the automobile it 
was so cold I couldn't talk to Betsy [taking 
Miss CarmichaeFs arm]. Whenever I opened 
my mouth the wind blew holes through my 
teeth. 

Miss Carmichael. I was resigned. I'd 
rather have gaps in the conversation than in your 
teeth. 

[Evelyn enters from the right. They greet 
her.] 

85 



SHORT PLAYS 



Mrs. Young. Mr. Mellicent and I [indicat- 
ing the pale young clergyman, who hows pro- 
foundly] have been discussing dreams and I want 
to refer the matter to you, doctor. Do you be- 
lieve in dreams? 

Dr. Wilson [beaming with a quizzical lookl. 
Why — er — yes, I think they are deHghtful. 

Mrs. Young. Yes, I know, one enjoys a 
pleasant dream, but do you consider them signifi- 
cant? 

Dr. Wilson. Oh, very. Of lobster a la 
Newburgh or salads or pate de foi gras or even 
an innocent Puritan New England pie. 

Mrs. Young. Still, you do not wholly appre- 
hend me. I mean are they significant psychically? 
Or would you say psychologically? [She smiles 
around at them with her air of humility asking 
for assistance.] I dream a great deal and I find 
my dreams so fascinating. I make it a rule to 
tell them always at the breakfast table, particu- 
larly if I have guests. I think it promotes con- 
versation at that period of the day when persons 
do not usually feel stimulated to it. 

Dr. Wilson [profoundly]. Dreams have al- 
ways been and still are the subject of deep inter- 
est to all those who are investigating psychic 
phenomena. 

Mrs. Young [enthusiastically]. Oh, how 
clever of you to say so ! I knew you couldn't dis- 
believe in premonitions. 

Dr. Wilson [surprised]. I don't know that 
I meant that altogether — that I — meant to go 
so far. And the term premonition is not so 

86 



LUCK? 



much used nowadays. Intuition Is the latest 
thing. 

Miss Wright. Well, people can call it pre- 
monition or whatever they choose, but I believe 
in it. 

Evelyn. You have great hardihood to say 
so. 

Dr. Wilson. Oh, my dear young lady, not 
to-day. Twenty years ago, perhaps, physical sci- 
ence called everything that wasn't a germ super- 
stition, but in the reaction now everybody talks 
psychic phenomena — except perhaps the few 
who really have experiences that are significant. 
\_He looks at her pointedly,'} 

Evelyn. No one ought to hold back any- 
thing that might prove valuable to humanity. It 
is quite proper for the Individual to allow his 
feelings to be vivisected for the sake of the race. 
Let's begin. Now why do you believe in pre- 
monitions? [To Miss Wright.'] 

Mrs. Fulsom [who has been devoting herself 
to Miss Carmichael']. I want your friend to 
meet a friend of mine \_to Miss Wright}^ may I 
borrow her a few minutes? I'll bring her back 
safely. 

Miss Wright [smiling and nodding to Mrs. 
Fulsom']. Why, Evelyn, the way I feel about 
things. Now, I am perfectly sure that Roger 
Campbell Is going to be beaten at golf In the 
finals to-morrow. [She relapses into a flushing 
state of embarrassment, conscious that she has 
put her foot into it, and the entire group is awk- 
wardly silent except Mrs. Young , who does not 

87 



SHORT PLAYS 



realize the situation and looks about smiling at 
the others.] 

Mrs. Young. Thought-transference Is an- 
other very Interesting phenomena — or would 
you say phenomenon? [She again looks about 
with the same smiling graceful pride in her own 
humility.] 

Miss Bailey. Oh, that Is a subject that I am 
immensely Interested In. How far, doctor, do 
you think one mind can Influence another? 

Dr. Wilson. Do you mean hypnotically, by 
suggestion? 

Miss Bailey. Well, no, I mean unconsciously 
or subconsciously, I suppose you would call It. 

Dr. Wilson. Perhaps I wouldn't call It that, 
but could you Illustrate? 

Miss Bailey. Suppose one person Is very 
much In the thoughts of another person and sup- 
pose he has a belief In something — a sort of 
superstition, which he hardly acknowledges or 
is even aware of, himself. Do you think that 
belief would have a compelling Influence over the 
other person? 

Dr. Wilson. For example. If a girl believes 
an electric ring of Iron will cure her sweetheart's 
rheumatism and slips It on his finger, will the 
rheumatism be very violent when he angrily dis- 
cards It? 

Miss Bailey [laughing]. It Is a little ex- 
treme, but we'll suppose it. 

Dr. Wilson [looking to right and left and 
then in a very loud whisper with a great show of 
secrecy]. Don't ever tell my students, but — I 
don^t know! Warts have been wished off and 

88 



LUCK? 



fortunes have been won by seeing the moon over 
the right shoulder, and people have given other 
people good luck with a five-leaf clover. To be 
serious, however, I have to tell you that though 
we could talk scientifically about It for weeks and 
use big words long as the stock-broker's tape, I 
don't know how much Influence one mind has 
over another. \_Looking at Evelyn again.'] 
People who really have experiences are so se- 
cretive about them. It's hard to get data. 

Miss Bailey. I quite sympathize with them. 
Suppose you had a hope or a fear hardly acknowl- 
edged to yourself even and there seemed to be 
evidence of its affecting some one you loved — 
would you want to discuss It? Whether you be- 
lieved In such a force or not, the proofs to make 
it seem possible would be inviolable. 

Evelyn. What big words, Josephine! 

Dr. Wilson. Would you call It obsession? 

Miss Bailey. Oh, I would call It something 
more sacred. The feeling of such a person over 
another person would be something between a re- 
ligious ecstasy and a self-conviction of sin. 
[Profoundly and earnestly.'] 

Miss Wright. Well, I don't think people 
have any business to poke into other minds and 
influence them. It's as bad as stealing silver 
spoons. 

Miss Bailey. Suppose they don't know it, or 
that It Is a force they can't control even if they 
do know. 

Evelyn. All this is very entertaining but 



so 



89 



SHORT PLAYS 



Dr. Wilson [interrupting quickly^. Per- 
sonal? 

Evelyn [sweetly^. No, I was going to say 
so caviare to the general. Such queer talk for a 
tea — caviare — why don't you stick to ices? 
[She turns as if to go.'\ 

Dr. Wilson. Too vague, you think? [De- 
taining her.l Come out to the University where 
we are trying to do some practical work. Dr. 
Roger Campbell was to have given a lecture on 
psychology of the brain this afternoon — that's 
material enough, isn't it? 

Evelyn [nonchalantly]. And didn't he? 

Dr. Wilson. He was unable to carry out his 
purpose. 

Evelyn. That seems unlike him. 

Miss Wright. Was he stage-struck? Lose 
his head? 

Dr. Wilson. Not exactly his head — he lost 
his brain. 

Mrs. Young. I can't believe it ! 

Dr. Wilson. It seemed an easy matter for 
him to get a brain because he is pathologist at the 
city hospital, you know — or did you know? 
[Inquiringly of Evelyn.] 

Evelyn. I think I have heard so. 

Dr. Wilson. So he had access to unusual 
things. But the husband of the sometime owner 
of this particular brain turned up unexpectedly 
and made allegations about his late wife's lack- 
ing certain organs which he seemed to think nec- 
essary to her full equipment for the next world 
and further stated that the autopsy was held 
without the permission of the bereaved family. 

90 



LUCK? 



Not to put too fine a point on it, he demanded 
the recalcitrant brain and had the doctor ar- 
rested. 

Mrs. Young. Arrested, oh, how horrible! 
Oh, dear me, he is not still languishing in prison? 

Dr. Wilson. Oh, no, a doctor hasn't time 
for that. 

Evelyn. A doctor never has time for any- 
thing he doesn't like. 

Dr. Wilson. A doctor can always furnish 
an alibi. The Imaginary patient is the doctor's 
unfailing alibi. 

[Mrs. Fulsom and Miss Carmichael come iii in 
a wild state of excitement.'] 

Mrs. Fulsom. What under the sun do you 
think? [They are all intensely inter ested.'\ An 
unheard-of thing is happening! {They become 
somewhat excited.] A most outrageous thing! 
[Their excitement grows.] 

Miss Bailey. Oh, tell us — don't keep us in 
suspense. 

Mrs. Young. Oh, please! 

Mrs. Fulsom. There are two policemen out- 
side ! 

Miss Wright. Policemen? 

Mrs. Fulsom. Yes, two large, capable, ro- 
bust, red-faced, blue policemen — determined to 
force an entrance. 

Miss Bailey. They must be detailed here 
to guard the tea. 

Miss Wright. Nonsense ! 

Miss Bailey. Why, it would be perfectly pos- 
sible — nowadays with so many cases of klepto- 
mania in society. 

91 



SHORT PLAYS 



Mrs. Fulsom. But it Isn't that at all. Their 
business is more — more sanguinary. 

Miss Wright. For heaven's sake, what do 
they want? Are they drunk? 

Mrs. Fulsom. No, they are deadly sober. 

Miss Wright. What on earth do they want? 

Mrs. Fulsom. That is the extraordinary and 
dreadful part of it. They want Roger Camp- 
bell ! They have a warrant for his arrest and 
they have tracked him here. They won't be dis- 
suaded from it. They say they are sorry to 
disconcert a tea but that the law Is the law. 
They are very nice about It. They say they are 
willing to come in anywhere, through the roof 
and attic by means of a ladder, or through a cellar 
window, or the back kitchen door. They are 
not intent upon the front door and the drawing- 
room. But even with their manners It Is so 
dreadful. 

Mrs. Young. Even a refined arrest Is so — 
so — malevolent! [Looking round with her us- 
ual propitiatory air.} 

Mrs. Fulsom. They say he'd much better be 
told so he can sneak out the back door with 
them quietly, but, of course, no one wants to tell 
him. 

Mrs. Young. Oh, Mr. Melllcent, couldn't 
you break the news to him — you could do it 
so gently. 

Mr. Mellicent [for the first time opening 
his lips}. I — I — 

Mrs. Young. Or, better still, go and per- 
suade those policemen to go away? You can be 



so persuasive ! 



92 



LUCK? 



Mr. Mellicent. I — I _ I should be most 
happy. 

Evelyn [turning to go toward the door}. 
How singular — at a tea! [She is about to go 
out, looking backward at them, when she runs 
smack into Roger Campbell coming in at the 
left.] 

Campbell. Oh, I beg your pardon. 
Evelyn. It was all my fault. [With mean- 
ing.] People deserve to be knocked down If 
they don't look where they are going. 
Campbell. I was clumsy. 
Evelyn. I wasn't looking — I was unavoid- 
able. 

Campbell. You are, quite, but it was my 
place to attempt to avoid you. 

[She disappears through the door at the left 
and he comes into the roo7n. The people 
all look at him as if he were a ghost. He 
smiles rather constrainedly and bows.] 
Campbell. How do you do? 
Mrs. Young. Oh, Dr. Campbell, we were 
just^ talking about you — about — what were we 
talking about? Coincidences, wasn't it? Or 
would you say coincidence? [She flutes, S7?iiling 
as usual]. 

Campbell. I hope I haven't interrupted. 

[Two policemen enter from the right, preceded 

by a little noise of voices and bustling on that 

side.] 

^ First Policeman. He's here, you know, all 

right, and he's got to go. [He stops and looks 

around at the group.] Which is him? That? 

[He points at Mr. Mellicent. Clutching his club 

93 



SHORT PLAYS 



he makes a stride toward that gentleman hi a 
bullying manner.^ 

Mr. Mellicent. Oh, dear, no! [Fright- 
ened and dropping hack to the protection of the 
ladies.] 

Policeman. I thought not. You wouldn't 
kidnap a fly, would you ? 

Mr. Mellicent. I really should not enjoy 
interfering with the sacred liberty of anything, 
even a tiny winged creature. 

Mrs. Young. How eloquent even In such 
adverse circumstances ! 

Policeman. Well, friends, we're wastin' 
time. 

Campbell [stepping forward]. What Is it 
you want? 

Policeman. A feller by the name of Dr. 
Campbell. 

Campbell. I am he, what do you want? 

Policeman. Well, then, come along. 

Campbell. What for? 

Policeman [insinuatingly]. Well, I reckon 
you know. 

Campbell. I don't. 

Policeman. Well maybe It'll come to you. 

Campbell. Explain yourself. 

Policeman. Well, if It ain't came to you yet, 
maybe you'll find out soon enough. 

Campbell. If you have any business with us, 
out with it. 

Policeman. We ain't got any business with 
us, but with you. 

Campbell. What is It? 



94 



LUCK? 



Policeman. Well, we don't want to give you 
away before your friends. 

Dr. Wilson. Come, come, my men, don't 
make a scene here. Go away and the doctor will 
follow you. 

Policeman. Well, not much he won't follow 
us, he'll go mit. That's what he'll do. [Threat- 
eningly.'] An' we don't want none of your but- 
tin' in, neither. The law's the law and you'd 
better not Interfere. We've had about 'nough 
trouble over this case and we're gettin' peevish. 

Campbell. Get at It! Tell what you're 
driving at ! 

Policeman. Well, If you must know, we're 
going to arrest you for kidnapin' that child. 

Campbell. For the Lord's sake, what child? 

Policeman. Well, It ain't goin' to do you no 
good neither to look innocent nor to get mad. 

Campbell. I have kidnaped no child and I 
refuse to be arrested. 

Policeman. They're right all right; they 
got the number of your car. And so her folks 
is dead sure It was you. You'll have to produce 
the child. 

Campbell. Will somebody kindly lend me 
a child? Pm nothing but an unworthy bachelor, 
you know. 

Policeman. Well, we're wastin' time. An', 
as I made mention of before, we're gettin' wore 
out. You kidnaped the Infant, come along. 

Campbell. I did not kidnap an Infant. Pm 
no such fool. If I were going to kidnap any- 
thing It would be a grown woman. I wouldn't 
stop at a baby. 

95 



SHORT PLAYS 



Policeman. Now stop your kiddin' or I'll 
have to use force. 

Campbell [growing very angry at last^. 
Will you, though ! \^He clenches his fists.] 
Touch me If you dare! IT he two face each 
other and a row seems imminent.] 

Mrs. Young. Oh, dear, oh dear! Mr. Mel- 
licent, do part them ! 

Dr. Wilson. Hold on, Campbell! Remem- 
ber the ladles. There's a good fellow! 

Campbell. Then you'd better shoo the ladles 
out of here. 

Policeman. Sure, Mike, this ain't no place 
for ladles. 

Campbell. What about you? What busi- 
ness have you to enter a house this way? It 
strikes me it's your place to get out. 

Policeman. I'm goin' — but not alone. I 
love company. 

\The -policeman starts for Campbell, who is 
quick and muscular, hauls off with his fist and 
hits the policeman in the face. The ladies 
shriek. Both policemen make for Camp- 
hell] 
Dr. Wilson. Hold on, Campbell, don't 
fight ! You'll have to go with them. 

\_There is a great tussle and confusion. The 

policemen grab him, he slips from them, they 

catch him again and hold him tight, one of 

them swears.] 

Policeman. We'll put handcuffs on you, if 

necessary. [Produces them.] 

Mrs. Young. Handcuffs! Oh, Mr. Melll- 
cent! [^Clinging to that worthy^ s arm.] 

96 



LUCK? 



Dr. Wilson. Out this way — go out this 
way, men — down through the kitchen and the 
back door. 

[The policemen drag Campbell to the door at 
the left where Evelyn is just entering. She 
hurries by them and across the room to the 
other ladies. There is great confusion, ex- 
clamation and excitement, and the curtain 
goes down as the policemen drag Campbell 
out, followed by Dr. JVilson, leaving the 
frightened ladies. The affray takes up two 
or three minutes.^ 



ACT III. 

[Tea-room of the Beechmont Country Club 
on the next afternoon, October 31^/. The 
finals of the fall golf tournament are being 
played. The room is filled with rocking and 
straight backed chairs and settees of wicker and 
some mission furniture. Some old prints and 
modern posters are on the walls. There is 
a large table on which the silver cups and 
trophies are displayed. At the right is a desk 
extension telephone on a table. On the other 
side of the room rather in front is a lozv tea- 
table where Miss Bailey, Miss JVright, and 
Miss Carmichael are drinking tea.] 

Miss Carmichael. Marriage Is just an In- 
vention of society for the suppression of genius. 
Miss Bailey. Oh, what deplorable cynicism ! 
Miss Carmichael. No, only observation. 
97 



SHORT PLAYS 



I have seen so many girls who seemed to have 
brains, marry and have their brains swallowed up 
by their husbands. Marriage is a thought de- 
stroyer. Husbands gorge themselves on their 
wives' intellects till the poor things have scarcely 
enough left to make pickles. 

Miss Wright. You talk as if pickles were 
made with brains instead of vinegar. 

Miss Carmichael. It's about half and half. 
No cooking is savory without intellect in the 
preparation. That's why the French are so suc- 
cessful. They are the cleverest people in the 
world. Their brains are spicy. 

Miss Wright. All the same, being a woman, 
I believe in marriage. Maybe that's because Fm 
not a genius but only a humdrum sort that likes 
to ride in a man's automobile and to be taken 
to the theater. If I were a man I might believe 
in George Meredith's marriage for ten years sys- 
tem, but being a woman I want mine tied to me as 
tight as possible — I don't want anything left so 
he can escape. 

Miss Bailey \^seriously — Miss Bailey is al- 
ways serious^. Do you think there are very 
many unhappy marriages? 

Miss Wright. How on earth is any one to 
know? After they're married people won't tell 
r.ny more than after they're dead. One thing is 
sure, if a married man will flirt with you, you can 
draw your own conclusions. 

Miss Carmichael. Not a bit of it. All 
men are natural polygamists and if a married 
man will flirt with you it doesn't prove that he 
is unhappy, but only that he's versatile. It 

98 



LUCK? 



doesn't prove that he's heretical, but only that he's 
haremical. 

Miss Bailey [laughing^. You are cynical! 

Miss Carmichael. No, only sensible. 

[Mrs, Fiilsom and Dr. JVihon enter from the 
right side chatting gaily. '\ 

Mrs. Fulsom. Well, what are you girls do- 
ing that you are having such a good time? 

Miss Carmichael. Doing what two or three 
met together always do — eating. 

Dr. Wilson. And what are you talking about 
that you all are so interested in? 

Miss Carmichael. The subject unmarried 
women left alone together for three minutes al- 
ways discuss — matrimony. 

[Mrs. Fiilsom and Dr. Wilson laugh.^ 

Dr. Wilson. Married women, I suppose, 
don't talk about it — they bear it in silence. 

Miss Bailey. Well, you know, one is really 
privileged to have opinions if one has grown into 
a grey-haired spinster. [She is rather an old 
young lady with grey hair.~\ 

Dr. Wilson [smiling}. My dear girl, grey 
hairs do not a spinster make, nor added years 
old age. [He bows to her with great deference.'] 

Miss Wright. I think spinsters are born, not 
made. 

Dr. Wilson. Yes, and it Isn't a question of 
marriage. I know many married old maids. It 
has always seemed to me that women are divided 
into two classes, the eternal Sappho and the eter- 
nal mother. The spinster Is a sort of third es- 
state, like the clergy. And, for that matter, 
spinsterhood Is not a question even of sex. 

99 



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There are male spinsters. The division can not 
be made by nature through the arbitrary distinc- 
tion of sex, nor yet by man through the arbitrary 
laws of marriage. 

Miss Carmichael. Oh, I have known old 
men spinsters — they are the worst of all. 

\_Evelyn comes in in a hurry, evidently nerv- 
ous. ~\ 

Miss Wright. Hello, Evelyn, you give one 
the Impression of having been sent for. 

Evelyn [pulling of her gloves in haste']. 
How do you do, Mrs. Fulsom? Good after- 
noon, Dr. Wilson. \^She is very nervous. Be- 
gins to take off her hat, pulling out the pins, then, 
as if recollecting herself, thrusts the^n in again.] 

Miss Wright [watching Evelyn closely]. 
You still give me the idea of some one with an 
inward agitation. Did you forget to take your 
digestive tablet this morning? 

Evelyn [pulling herself together and smiling 
calmly]. Don't judge others by what the doc- 
tor prescribes for you, dear. I never need di- 
gestive tablets. 

Miss Bailey. Who is hostess for this after- 
noon? 

Evelyn. I am. I was on the committee but 
I didn't Intend to come, for I have a headache — 

Miss Wright. You seem to have a good 
many headaches lately. 

Evelyn. Mrs. Gray is hostess, but at the last 
minute she telephoned me she couldn't be 
here and to take her place. I am afraid I am 
late. 

Miss Bailey. Oh, no, you aren't. People 

lOO 



LUCK? 



never begin to come till late in the afternoon when 
the games are nearly over. 

Miss Wright [with a meaning look at Eve- 
lyn'], I don't know what could have made me 
think of him — but has anybody heard anything 
about Roger Campbell? 

Miss Bailey. He Is playing his finals this 
afternoon, so he must have managed to break his 
prison bars. 

Dr. Wilson. I'll tell you about him. It 
was his car, sure enough, that had the baby, but 
the kidnaper was his chauffeur and not the doc- 
tor. The man was a friend of the little girl's 
aunt, somebody's cook, and he picked up the 
baby and took her for a ride. He brought her 
In all safe and sound with cracker-jack and chew- 
ing-gum and an Ice-cream cone and the alarmed 
family was pacified. But Campbell was arrested 
again in the evening for running into an old man. 
The old fool literally walked in front of Camp- 
bell's car and couldn't be avoided. He wasn't 
much hurt, fortunately. 

Miss Wright. I thought I was going to be 
arrested this afternoon. We had the glass front 
up In the car so we didn't feel the wind so much 
and we came whooping along and nearly demol- 
ished a fat policeman who was crossing the street. 
He almost had to run and you know a police- 
man can't any more run than a tight oil can can. 
That Is, you can what you can, and so on ! Imag- 
ine the catastrophe. We missed him by an inch. 
Well, Roger Isn't so slow. To be arrested three 
times In the course of twenty-four hours is go- 
ing some. 

lOI 



SHORT PLAYS 



Evelyn. You'd better look out. People 
who ride in automobiles with glass fronts oughtn't 
to throw stones. 

Mrs. Fulsom. I hear the doctor is having all 
sorts of bad luck in his game this afternoon. 

[Evelyn goes out.'] 

Dr. Wilson. He is. He has a miserable 
caddy and the little fool has allowed two balls 
to hit his shins and lose two holes for Camp- 
bell, rd never get in the way of a golf ball, 
myself. But caddies rush in where angels fear 
to tread. 

Mrs. Fulsom. Poor little fellow! I am 
sure I should not want a golf ball to hit my — 
ankles. They must hurt awfully. 

Dr. Wilson. They do. It's a great pity it 
hadn't hit him on the head and killed him. 

Mrs. Fulsom [delightedly]. Oh, you blood- 
thirsty person ! 

Miss Wright. Well, everybody has picked 
Roge for the winner but I know he won't be. 
He's a dandy player but he hasn't got an open 
and shut cinch, for there's such a thing as luck 
and he's having awful luck lately. 

[The telephone rings. Miss Wright, who is 
standing near, answers it.] 

Miss Wright. Hello! Yes, this is the 
Country Club. Dr. Campbell? No, I can't call 
Dr. Campbell to the telephone. No, I can't 
possibly, the Green Committee would skin me. I 
say the Green Committee would skin me, yes, 
skin me. He must not be inter-rupted, I tell you 
— he's playing in the finals. You are his grand- 
father's man? That doesn't impress me much. 

102 



LUCK? 



I wouldn't call him if you were his grandfather's 
grandmother. Well, then, be frank. The old 
gentleman is in a cage? Oh, in a rage I Heard 
that his grandson had been speculating? Seems 
rather likely. Heard that his grandson had 
been arrested again? Well, what of that? Ar- 
rests occur of the best regulated automobiles. 
If I were you I'd just try to pacify the old gen- 
tleman. He's ramping around? Up and down. 
Is he? You'd better keep him shut up In one 
room and not let any of his devoted friends call 
on him, for he might hear still worse things — 
things that would throw him straight into a 
fit. Devoted friends are bad enough any time 
but they're particularly so when you're In a cage 
— I mean in a rage. Well, I can't help It if 
he does have the gout — he can't have his grand- 
son. I should think the gout would be enough. 
If It hurts him to stamp about, why on earth 
doesn't he sit down? If I were you I'd give the 
old gentleman a nice soft kitten to nurse and see 
if that won't amuse him. If he comes to the tele- 
phone and swears, I'll have him arrested! Mer- 
ciful heavens ! He Is going to disinherit his 
grandson! 

[Campbell enters, from the right, in his golf 
clothes. He wears a pair of white duck 
trousers somewhat soiled where he has 
wiped his hands after the manner of golfing 
gentlemen and he has on a white silk shirt 
with turnover collar and flowing tie. His 
sleeves are rolled up and he limps. Miss 
Wright looks at him over her shoulder.'] 
Miss Wright. I can't talk over personal 
103 



SHORT PLAYS 



matters with you In a public place. [She hangs 
up the receiver with a hang.'] 

Dr. Wilson. Hello, old man, how's the 
game? 

CaiMPBELL. Rotten. I came In for some tea. 

Dr. Wilson. Nothing stronger? 

Campbell. Not while I'm playing, thank 
you. Henderson wanted something, so we 
stopped for a few minutes. My, but that tea 
smells good. I'm terribly thirsty. 

[Evelyn enters with a plate of cakes in one 
hand and a cup of tea in the other. They 
are clearly embarrassed, standing still and 
confronting each other for the moment.] 

Mrs. Fulsom. The doctor wants some tea, 
Evelyn. 

Evelyn. Oh, won't you have this? [She 
hands him the cup, which he is about to take.] 

Miss Wright. How awfully fortunate that 
you happened to have just what he wanted! [In 
passing the cup from one hand to the other they 
drop it. It smashes to the floor and the con- 
tents splash. They exclaim and in picking up 
the pieces they bump into each other. Dr. Wil- 
son, then, also stoops to help. Roger limps to 
the table zvith the pieces.] 

Mrs. Fulsom. Aren't you a little lame? 

Campbell. Yes, I turned my ankle down In 
the ravine where I lost a ball. I stepped on a 
stone and hurt the ball of my foot. 

Dr. Wilson. Did you find the ball? 

Campbell [s7niling]. Well, the ball is here 
all right, as I have reason to know. 

104 



LUCK? 



Dr. Wilson. But the ball? 

Campbell. No, I lost the ball. 

Dr. Wilson. Then you lost the hole? 

Campbell. Yes, I have lost two holes, no, 
three, this afternoon by losing balls. 

Evelyn. Won't you have a cake ? 

Campbell. Thank you, not a cake. 

Miss Wright. I should think you'd want 
something sweet. 

Campbell [with a glance at Evelyn]. I do, 
but It doesn't seem to agree with me. 

Miss Wright. If I had as much bad luck 
as you, I'd take anything pleasant that came my 
way. 

Campbell. I don't believe in luck, you know. 

Miss Wright. I don't blame you. I don't 
see how you could any more. 

Campbell. I mean bad luck. I'm not super- 
stitious. 

Miss Wright. No? Well, I had a cousin 
once who wasn't superstitious and once he was 
walking under a ladder and a brick fell on his 
head. It takes more than a brick to make some 
people tumble, however. 

Mrs. Fulsom. I hear you're winning. 

Campbell. " Report greatly exaggerated," 
as Mark Twain said when he was reported dead. 
I'm not beaten — yet. Which reminds me that 
Henderson may be waiting. 

Miss Wright. Good luck to you ! 

\_He turns and gives her a cross look over his 
shoulder, yet half -laughing, as he goes out.] 

Dr. Wilson. I am a little worried about him. 
105 



SHORT PLAYS 



Some men might get discouraged under such cir- 
cumstances, such a streak of adversity, and it 
would affect their game. 

Miss Wright. You mean bad luck, by your 
streak of adversity? But I think he's looking 
pretty hardy yet, don't you, Evelyn? 

Evelyn. I really didn't notice. 

Miss Wright. I observed you didn't look at 
him much. 

Evelyn. Quite as much as usual. It's not 
my game to watch people in order to make re- 
marks at their expense afterwards. 

Miss Wright. If my esthetic nature would 
permit me to be vulgar, I should say, " Dear me, 
wouldn't that freeze you?" [With a glance 
and gesture at Evelyn. Mrs. Young and Mr, 
Mellicent enter from the r'ight.'\ 

Mrs. Young. Isn't it a charming day? Mr. 
Mellicent and I have been discussing the part- 
ing of autumn all the way over. He is going to 
make some beautiful allusions to it and quota- 
tions about it in his sermon Sunday. 

Miss Wright. He might quote from Tam o' 
Shanter — that seems appropriate as to season 
and morality. 

Dr. Wilson. Won't you come out with me, 
Mellicent, and watch the game? I think they 
are coming in. 

Mr. Mellicent. I should be charmed. 

Dr. Wilson. Would you like to see it, Miss 
Carmichael? Or is gossip more sport than 
sport? 

Miss Carmichael. Indeed, I should love to 
come. You can't always watch a good game 

io6 



LUCK? 



of golf, but gossip, like the poor, you have always 
with you. 

Dr. Wilson [as they go out^. Golf first, gos- 
sip afterwards, like a cordial. 

[Mr. Mellicent hows low to the ladies and the 

three go out, Miss Wright preceding the two 

men and Mellicent with lowered head in his 

habitual manner of deference.'] 

Miss Wright. I want to tell you about 

Roge. It was his grandfather's man telephoning 

just now and he wants his grandson right away 

— I mean the old gentleman does. He's in a per- 
fect cage — I mean a rage — and he says he's 
going to disinherit his grandson. He's heard 
about all the arrests and the patients dying — as 
if Roge could help that, if they will die — and 
the speculating and everything. I don't believe 
he'd mind anything but the money. He's such a 
stingy old codger. Oh, dear, I never saw such 
a streak of bad luck. It's awful. Roge told 
Dr. Wilson that some stocks broke awfully yes- 
terday and worse this morning and he'd probably 
have to sell his automobile and maybe his office 
furniture. 

Mrs. Young. He was perhaps merely joking 

— he's such a witty, amusing young man. 

Miss Wright. I never heard of a man jok- 
ing at his own funeral. 

Mrs. Fulsom. It is so hard for a man to 
arrange about money. He never has any jewelry 
to sell. 

Miss Wright. No, I suppose overcoats and 
hats are good to wear out, but don't bring in 
much. 

107 



SHORT PLAYS 



[Miss Carmichael comes rushing in in a great 

state of excitement. '\ 
Miss Wright. Why, Betsy, what's the mat- 
ter with you? Was there a Hon in your path? 

Miss Carmichael \hreathless'\. Oh, it's 
dreadful ! 

Miss Wright. You look it — but what Is? 
Miss Carmichael. It's horrible ! 
Miss Wright. But what? 
Miss Carmichael. It Is too much ! 
Miss Wright. I never knew you to be Inar- 
ticulate before — make signs. 

Miss Carmichael. Dr. Campbell was beaten 
in his golf match. 

Miss Wright. Confound the luck ! 
Miss Carmichael. But that wasn't all. 
All of Them. Well? 

Miss Carmichael. He was hit on the head 
by a golf ball and knocked senseless and they are 
bringing him In here now. 

[They all exclaim and are properly affected by 

the awful intelligence.'\ 
Mrs. Young. Oh, where Is Mr. Mellicent? 
He will be able to do something. He is always 
so efficient. 

[There is a noise of footsteps. The ladies 
bustle about, Campbell is assisted in from 
the right by Dr. Wilson and Mr. Mellicent, 
who have their arms about him supporting 
him. His ankle is really sprained and he 
leans on them. They are both very solic- 
itous, Mr, Mellicent actually so, Dr, Wil- 
son acting, Mr, Mellicent futile as usual,'] 



io8 



LUCK? 



Dr. Wilson. Get him a chair, please. 

[The ladies skurry about ^ piilUng the tables and 
chairs out of the ivay and place an arm chair 
in the center of the room. The men help 
him to it and he sits down.^ 

Dr. Wilson. Do you feel better now, old 
chap? 

Campbell. No, I think I feel worse. 

Mrs. Fulsom. Oh, some one get him a glass 
of brandy! 

Mrs. Young. Oh, has any one a camphor 
bottle? Or eau de cologne? Or would he pre- 
fer smelling-salts? Would you prefer smelling- 
salts, doctor? 

[The women all crowd about him.~\ 

Mrs. Fulsom. Surely he ought to have some 
brandy. 

Dr. Wilson. No, no, I think not. Not 
brandy. But if you will not stand so close about 
him. Let him have a little air. And if some 
one would kindly bring a glass of water. [Miss 
PFright, Miss Bailey, Mrs. Fulsom, and Miss 
Carmichael all rush out to get some water.J 
And perhaps some ice on his head would be a 
good thing. [Evelyn, who has been hiding in the 
background, hurries off for the ice.'] 

Campbell. Fm all right. 

Dr. Wilson [in a loud whisper to Roger while 
the women are oufj. For heaven's sake, don't 
be ! Now's your chance. Pretend you're hard 
hit. Make an impression. Act for all you're 
worth ! 

Campbell. Well, I was hard hit. I am. 

Dr. Wilson. At It, then. Keep it up ! [In 
109 



SHORT PLAYS 



the following scefie Ca^nphell acts as a man does 
who is a little delirious or drunk.'] 

[The other women all come in each with a glass 
of water and stand round holding the glasses 
fuuch in evidence and simidtaneoiisly offer- 
ing theirs to him. He looks at the glasses 
in a dazed way.] 

Mrs. Young. As you have a plethora of 
glasses, would It not be well to dash one In his 
face? I have heard It was salutary In cases of 
fainting. 

\Evelyn has come in quietly and stands behind 
his chair where he can not see her, holding a 
chunk of ice on his head.] 

Campbell [rather cringing from Mrs, 
Young]. Please don't. [JVater is trickling 
from the ice on his head.] I feel as though It 
had already been done, but maybe It Is only water 
on the brain. I feel as though I had something 
on my mind, but I can't think what. [He turns up 
his eyes as if to see what is on top of liis head.] 

Dr. Wilson. You're all right, old fellow. 
How do you feel? 

Campbell [very feebly and with a great wink 
at Dr. Wilson while the women have turned their 
heads away for a moment]. Extremely dotty. 
I seem to see round things In the air all looking 
at me. [He points out, waving his hand, at the 
audience which he must be directly facing.] I 
can't tell whether they are made of heads or golf 
balls or rings — I suppose it doesn't matter much 
If there Is nothing In them. 

Mrs. Young. Dear me, he's wandering, isn't 
he? 

no 



LUCK? 



Campbell. No, my dear lady, I am sitting 
right here. It's the heads and golf balls and 
rings that are wandering. I feel like a sick Cy- 
rano de Bergerac — sitting here — as if I were 
occupying the center of the stage. Has any one 
done anything to my nose? 

Mrs. Young. Oh, he is certainly delirious! 
Oh, Mr. Mellicent, please say whether you think 
he will be permanently affected? 

Campbell. Oh, lord, xMellicent, don't make 
the effort on my account! I know what's the 
matter with me — I drank too much tea. Ever 
drink too much tea, Mellicent? 

Mr. Mellicent. I — I — I do not remem- 
ber to have — 

Campbell. You're a lucky man not to have 
a memory, Mellicent. I wish I didn't remember 
so much. You're a happy man, I wish I didn't 
remember. But don't ever drink too much tea 
again. It makes queer things befall you, golf 
balls ^ and planetary influences. Just now an 
aerolite from Venus fell on my head. If It had 
been from Mars it would have been more com- 
fortably warm, so evidently it's from Venus — 
she's the one who hands you out the Icy heart. 
[As he says this Evelyn lets the piece of ice slip 
of and it slides down over his shoulder into his 
lap and thence to the floor — if fortunate enough 
across the stage out over the foot-lights and into 
the audience. At the same time the telephone 
rings. Miss Wright answers it. There is con- 
sternation and confusion.'] 

Campbell [looking after the piece of ice]. 
There goes my marble heart. 

Ill 



SHORT PLAYS 



Miss Wright [at the telephone^. Yes? this 
is the Country Club. Oh, you are Roger Camp- 
bell's grandfather. Oh, how do you do? Oh, 
indeed, I meant no insinuations. I have heard 
you have the gout. Yes, I knew you are all put 
out. Well, they have just carried him in. 
Yes, there has been a terrible accident and the 
doctor has been fearfully injured. We are — we 
are [with deep gravity and impressiveness'] just 
keeping him alive with stimulants now. Good- 
by. [Hangs up the receiver.'] Maybe that will 
fix him for a while ! [Peter ^ Roger^s grand- 
father's man, comes in at the right, the other side 
of the stage.] 

Dr. Wilson [To Evelyn]. That ice must 
have chilled you. [He walks to her and takes 
her two hands, holding them and chafing them 
tenderly.] 

Peter [deferentially at the door]. Vm Dr. 
Campbell's grandfather's man. 

Campbell [looking as miserable as possible]. 
Hello, Peter! Fve been pretty hard hit. Take 
me home ! [Peter helps him. He pretends to 
faint. 

[Curtain.] 



ACT IV. 

[Hallowe'en evening of the same day, Octo- 
ber 31^^. The scene is the same as in Act I, 
the library in Evelyn's home. Norah enters 
from the right and Evelyn from the left. Eve- 
lyn is quiet, preoccupied. She is pale, dressed 
112 



LUCK? 



in a soft white gown, open at the throat, and 
is prettier than ever. They cross, Evelyn 
walking slowly and unconsciously. The maid 
hurries to the table, where she lights the lamp, 
the room had been rather dark. Evelyn 
throws herself into a chair and watches Nor ah 
dreamily, with troubled eyes.'] 

NoRAH. Timmie's come back, miss. 

Evelyn. TImmie? 

NoRAH. The little black cat, miss. He's 
just wandered in a few minutes ago. He found 
his way back all by his little self and was that 
tired, but so pleased to get home. I gave him a 
saucer of milk. 

Evelyn. Oh, the dear little thing! We'll 
keep him this time, the sweet, blessed little fellow, 
to find his way back all alone ! 

NoRAH. I'm thinkin' the fairies must have 
helped him, miss. \^She goes to the small stand 
and picks up the gloves Campbell left there. 
She puts them down, watching Evelyn furtively. 
Then she picks them tip again and is about to 
walk away with them-, when Evelyn turns upon 
her quickly.'] 

Evelyn [a little sharply]. How many times 
have I told you not to move those gloves, No- 
rah? 

NoRAH. I've dusted round thim, miss, for 
two days, according to your explicit directions, 
miss, an' now he'll niver come no more at all, at 
all, to claim thim ! 

Evelyn. Norah, what right have you to say 
that? What do you mean? 

113 



SHORT PLAYS 



NoRAH. I mane the accident, miss. [Wipes 
her eyes with the corner of her apron.~\ 

Evelyn. Nonsense, it wasn't much of an ac- 
cident. He was only hit by a golf ball and 
stunned a little. They thought it was worse than 
it was. It didn't prove to be anything serious. 

NoRAii. I wasn't referrin' to that, miss, but 
to the other accident. Me friend, Mr. O'Hooli- 
han, the policeman, jist told me — 

Evelyn. What was it? Tell me. 

NoRAH [looking away and with her handker- 
chief to her eyes.] I'd rather not be the one to 
tell you, miss. 

Evelyn. Norah, tell me at once. 

NoRAH. Well, thin, miss, me friend, Mr. 
O'Hoolihan — he's an officer, you know, miss — 
he — 

Evelyn. Yes, go on. [Excitedly.] 

Norah. Mr. O'Hoolihan said — he told 
me — 

Evelyn. Norah, out with it ! 

Norah. Mr. O'Hoolihan said that Dr. 
Campbell's automobile was run into by an electric 
car and all smashed up. 

Evelyn [startled]. Were there people in it? 

Norah. Oh, yes, miss, the car was full of 
people. 

Evelyn. I don't mean the car, but the auto- 
mobile. [She gets up and takes a step toward 
the maid.] 

Norah. Him, himself, miss, and was all de- 
sthroyed, miss, like a potato under a potato 
masher. 

Evelyn. Not — not — ? 
114 



LUCK? 



NoRAH. Yes, miss, jist that, miss. Kilt en- 
tolrely. 

[Evelyn takes a quick sharp breath like a 
moan. She grasps the back of the tall chair 
for support and leans against it. Norah has 
thrown her apron over her head as she fin- 
ishes speaking and weeps aloud under it zvith 
great sobs that are said to relieve an aching 
heart. Evelyn finally speaks brokenly.] 
Evelyn. I can't bear this. I am going to 
him, straight to him. [After a moment.] 
Norah, you are not to tell any one about the 
accident or where I have gone. You are not 
to speak of it to any one, Norah. [She goes out 
at the right door and is gone a moment. Norah 
stands with lowered apron and woe-begone face. 
Evelyn enters again, throwing over her shoulders 
a long and very becoming soft white wool 
wrap.] 

Evelyn. Be sure not to tell a soul, Norah. 
I am going to him. 

Norah. No, miss, I'll not tell a living soul. 
[Evelyn hurries out at right again. After she 
has gone, the maid wipes her eyes, looks for 
the gloves, takes them up, breaks forth into 
fresh wailing, lays them down and goes out 
at left, shaking her head, moaning and say- 
ing, *^ Oh, the poor young man,'' etc., in a 
sort of croon. The doorbell is heard at 
once. Norah comes in from the left, is 
hurrying across the room when she ^ sees 
just in front of her Campbell, who is en- 
tering from the right. She utters a shriek 
and backs precipitately and frantically.] 
115 



SHORT PLAYS 



Campbell. How do you do, Norah ? Won't 
you let me come in? 

Norah [from under her apron, which she has 
flung over her head~\. Is it yerself, sir? 

Campbell. I hope it is. 

Norah [in a half -stifled voice]. Oh, are ye 
sure, sir? 

Campbell. Why, yes, practically sure. 

Norah. But sure ye are a ghost able to come 
in with the door shut? 

Campbell. The door was standing open, so 
I walked in after ringing the bell. Is Miss Eve- 
lyn in ? 

Norah [lowering her apron a little at a time, 
cautiously, watching him]. No, sir, she ain't in, 
she wint to — [PVith an illuminating senile.'] 
But she told me not to tell yez where she wint till 
she came home. 

Campbell. Oh, she expected me, then? 

Norah. She'll be that glad to see ye, sir, 
when she gets back. I don't think she'll be gone 
long. [Grinning very delightedly and slyly. 1 
Will ye please make yerself at home, sir. [She 
goes out at left. Campbell puts down his hat 
on a chair and walks about taking off his gloves, 
which he deposits on the rim of his hat. He 
walks around the room, looking at things, and 
reads to himself with exaggerated interest the 
titles of the books. Goes to the table, finally sits 
down in a chair with his back to the right en- 
trance, crosses his legs with an attempt at elab- 
orate ease and commences to read. He is able 
to keep still only for a few rnoments, flings the 
book away from him and gets up and walks about 

ii6 



LUCK? 



again. He goes to the low bookcase and picks 
up the pot-pourri jar, examining the contents, 
puts it down again. He walks over to the left 
front of the room and is intently examining some- 
thing with his hack to her when Evelyn enters 
from the right hack — diagonally across the room 
from him. He whirls around and they stand still 
facing each other. She is white and intense, he 
flushed and excite d.^ 

Evelyn. You! 

Campbell [smiling with a sort of half embar- 
rassed attempt to be at ease]. I — I came for 
my gloves. 

Evelyn. They would have been sent to you. 

Campbell. But they are still here exactly 
where I left them. [He picks up the gloves and 
looks at her with a question.] 

Evelyn. When you found them, why didn't 
you go? 

Campbell. I was Invited to stay. Norah 
said you wanted to see me. 

Evelyn. Norah seems to have the truly Irish 
gift of foresight. 

Campbell. We felt alike about it. I sup- 
pose it was the consanguinity of the Celtic tem- 
perament. I am beginning to believe that I am 
neglecting that part of my inheritance — pre- 
monitions, foresight, omens, and other Scottish 
soul perquisites. 

Evelyn. Have you come back to cultivate 
them here? 

Campbell. You put it In a more beautifully 
figurative way than I could have done. 

Evelyn. Superstitions, symbols, and all such 
117 



SHORT PLAYS 



follies. Are you going to study them scientifically 
or for their poetic value? 

Campbell. Miss Vaughn, I wish you could 
realize that I am terribly embarrassed. [He 
thrusts one hand deep into his coat pocket.'] 

Evelyn. You! Really? 

CAxMPBELL. Yes, it's unusual, I know. But I 
have to do a very — for me — unusual thing. I 
wish you would help me. [Beseechingly^ half 
whimsically.^^ 

Evelyn. What do you want me to do? 

Campbell. What do I want you to do ? Oh, 
lord, I should think you would know! But I've 
got to get through my part first. Evelyn, I've 
got to acknowledge myself wholly in the wrong 
and to apologize to you from the bottom of my 
heart. Can you forgive me ? 

Evelyn. Oh, I was frightened to death by 
your accident just now ! 

Campbell. My accident? Did I have an- 
other? 

Evelyn. Oh, they told me you were killed! 

Campbell. So that's where you've been and 
why you went? 

Evelyn. They said you were killed and I 
found you were not even scratched and I hated 
you for the horrible fright you gave me. Oh, I 
hated you. If you only knew how you made me 
suffer! They said your automobile was run into 
and you were killed. 

Campbell. I wasn't and it wasn't. It must 
have been some other fellow. I've had so many 
accidents that they've got into the habit of at- 
tributing them all to me. No, I haven't been 

ii8 



LUCK? 



even scratched, not since the golf-ball. Except by 
my conscience. I was on the way to my Swastika 
— you are my Swastika — that is why I was so 
miraculously preserved this time. 

Evelyn. You're laughing. 

Campbell. For heaven's sake, let me! I 
haven't for tw^o whole days and four hours, fifty- 
two hours. It wasn't the things going wrong — 
I rather enjoyed that, for they acted as a coun- 
ter irritant. And when I had lost the one thing 
that was worth while the rest wasn't even a baga- 
telle. " From him that hath not shall be taken 
even that which he hath " and he won't mind. 
Also, what bothereth a man if he lose the whole 
world, having lost his own girl? 

Evelyn. Oh, how can you be so flippant 
when the thing is so serious? 

Campbell. Maybe to hide my seriousness. 
It is a question of life and death to me. [Becom- 
ing earnest and coming close to her.^ I have 
been a beast. I have had my cudgeling and I 
deserved it. I want to know if you will forgive 
me? 

Evelyn. It isn't a question of forgiveness! 
Forgiveness is for strangers — it is a futile word 
to use between people who have been as close to 
each other as we have been. The thing is 
deeper. It is a question of understanding. And 
of respect. 

Campbell. I have gained some understand- 
ing both of you and of myself. I want to tell 
you that I respect you utterly and that I know 
now where all my happiness lies — it lies only In 
making you happy. I was a prig not to want 

119 



SHORT PLAYS 



to wear the ring and I was a beast to refuse it. 
I will wear it or anything else you wish. It is 
for you to decide what you will do with me. 

Evelyn. Oh, I was thoughtless and young 
and foolish to want you to wear it. But it hurt 
me so to have you think I was superstitious. Do 
you now? I must know. 

Campbell. No, but you like to play with it. 
I suppose it is the poetry of it that attracts you. 
It does me, too, for that matter. Evelyn, will 
you get the thing and put it on my finger ? 

Evelyn. But I must be sure. [She takes a 
step towards him. He holds out his anns.l 
No, not yet. We must be sure. Do you under- 
stand me? 

Campbell. I think I do, but no one can be 
sure of that. The thing I am sure of — and it 
is the only thing that matters — is that I love you 
enough to love all the queer little things you do 
just because they are you. I appreciate you now, 
I don't criticize — there's a difference. Please 
get the fool thing and put It on. Good lord, I 
want it so. 

lEvelyn goes to the pot-pourri jar and extracts 
the ring therefrom. Campbell follows her, 
not too near.'] 

Campbell. In that? I picked that up a few 
minutes ago and was tempted to open it. 

Evelyn. Yet even now you are not retreat- 
ing from your position in the least. [Smiling.] 

Campbell. Of course I wasn't drawn to the 
jar In any occult way. It was the rose leaves I 
wanted to smell. [He grins and holds up his 
finger.] 

I20 



LUCK? 



Evelyn. I meant if you didn't come at last, 
to drop It Into the river. 

Campbell. But you can't drown bad luck. 
It has more lives than a cat. 

Evelyn. But this Is good luck. I didn't 
want It without you. I give It to you and then 
you are to put It on my finger, and I will wear It 
as your proxy. 

Campbell. No, you know I am not en- 
tirely reconciled to the little outlandish thing yet. 
Some people used to wear hair shirts next their 
tender bodies. With a person of my disposition 
it Is more salutary to wear one's humiliation on 
the exterior for everybody to see. 

[He holds out his finger. They are both nerv- 
ous and trembling. She fumbles a little and 
finally wedges the ring down to its place. 
He catches her two hands in his.'] 

Campbell. It was you that did It, dearest. 
You taught me sense, you made me come to you. 
You were In my dreams, In my thoughts. You 
were with me all the time. You were In every- 
thing. The sincerity, the sweetness of you. 

Evelyn. Thought transference? [Smiling.] 
Don't grow superstitious, dear. 

Campbell [smiling, too]. I don't know. 
But what does It matter? What does anything 
matter? So that we have this wonderful elemen- 
tal thing — this love ! It Is the good luck that 
makes everything else come right. 

[He takes her in his arms. Just then Norah 
comes in at the door left, unconscious of the 
tableau and her intrusion, with the black kit- 
ten in her arms. She smiles and pretends to 
111 



SHORT PLAYS 



look abashed, holds up the little black cat 
towards them as if in benediction and then 
silently and coyly retreats on tiptoe.'] 



[Curtain.] 



122 



ENTR' ACTE. 

Time: The present. 

Place: A handsomely-furnished room in a mod- 
ern mansion. 
Persons: Romeo, Juliet, and Carmen. 

\The scene is a dress rehearsal of a play 
some society people are producing for a char- 
ity. It has been written by one of them and 
is to be given under her direction. All the 
characters are noted personages of the Drama, 
among them Romeo, Juliet, and Carmen. 
Romeo and Juliet are lovers in the play. The 
two people who are to take the parts are in 
truth in love with each other, but their engage- 
ment has been broken through a misunder- 
standing due to jealousy. They are both 
proud. Romeo believes Jidiet hates him, while 
Juliet thinks that he is in love with the girl 
who is to take the part of Carmen. Their af- 
fair has not been knozvn to the others, hence 
the awkward situation zvhich they have neither 
of thein been able to evade, of their being 
cast for lovers. The play is to be given the 
next evening in this private house and the 
dress rehearsal is now going forward in the 
drawing-room. The curtain rises disclosing an 
unoccupied room soyne distance from the 
drawing-room. It is well and tastefidly fur- 
123 



SHORT PLAYS 



nished and must have a long old-fashioned gilt 
mirro?' and a couch. There must he a large 
center space clear for dancing, Romeo en- 
ters, followed hy Jidiet. Romeo is a graceful 
fellow with a pleasant voice, and is good-look- 
ing, dressed in a beautiful costume of light 
blue velvet and satin with silver trinwiings, 
Juliet is in white with gold in the trimmings 
of fillet and girdle, and the slightest touch of 
rose. She wears a pink rose, and she has blue 
eyes, is fair, impetuous, with a glowing love- 
liness. They are both absorbed in their manu- 
scripts, learning their parts at the last minute 
after the manner of amateur actors. They 
both carry a large roll of manuscript in their 
hands.'\ 

Romeo. This is the room I meant. It seems 
to be empty. I guess we can go through our 
parts here. It's far enough from the rabble for 
us to be able to hear each other speak. 

Juliet. I never heard such a howHng mob. 

Romeo. That's what a dress rehearsal is — 
it's anarchy. [They both speak in a sort of con- 
strained politeness and considt their manuscripts.'] 
Um — um — where shall we begin ? 

Juliet [fumbling with her manuscript]. I 
suppose you can't put any restraint upon people 
who give their services. 

Romeo. No, you can't put a bit in a gift 
horse's mouth. 

Juliet. When people give their services, 
they think that's all that can be asked of them. 
There's no further responsibility. 

124 



ENTR' ACTE 



Romeo. No, It's the feel of the cool silver 
dollar that produces a sense of responsibility. 
It's money makes the manager's automobile go. 
I'm sorry for the poor girl who Is trying to man- 
age this play. Some one told me she wrote it, 
too — did she? 

Juliet. Oh, yes, she wrote it. That's why 
she Is silly enough to think she knows more about 
It than we do. 

Romeo. That's just like an author. They 
always think they know more about their plays 
than the actors do. Why, an actor can always 
find a meaning the author never knew was there. 

Juliet [turning the pages of her manuscript 
again]. Where shall we begin? ^She goes over 
to the couch and sits down.] 

Romeo. Before we begin, would you mind 
telling me what charity we are giving the play 
for? So many people have asked me. 

Juliet. Do you mean to say you don't know? 
l^Romeo shakes his head and they both laugh.] 

Romeo. Of course I'm charitably inclined. 
Any old charity works me — if I can get any fun 
out of it. 

Juliet. It is for the benefit of " The Society 
for the Erection of Portable Patent Swings for 
the Children of Scrub Women." They were 
dreadfully afraid the League would get ahead of 
them with their operetta, but they have beaten the 
League out by a week. 

Romeo. What league? 
^ Juliet. Oh, '' The League for the Distribu- 
tion of Free Sand Piles for the Orphans of Street 



I25j 



SHORT PLAYS 



Car Motormen." The two charities are ready to 
cut each other's throats, you know. 

Romeo. No, I didn't know. But it's me for 
the scrub women. The motormen's offspring 
ought to inherit enough sand. 

Juliet. With your usual predilection you 
choose the sex. [Smiling sarcastically and getting 
up.] We must get to work. 

Romeo. Of course, right you are. Now Fm 
on. Shall we do the balcony scene? 

Juliet [fumbling zvith he?- 7nanuscript~\. But 
we're not alone in that scene. 

Romeo. We ought to be, by rights. 

Juliet [sententiously']. I'm very glad we're 
not. Oh, here it is — where Cyrano de Bergerac 
comes under my balcony and tries to make me 
think he's Romeo — that is, you — [rather as if 
talking to herself] — when you are really with 
me upstairs all the time. And I take him for one 
of the pirates in " Peter Pan." 

Romeo. Jove, hasn't she a menagerie? She 
has done up the whole English drama into a 
burlesque. That's like modern nerve, 'specially 
of the American variety. Imagine Faust and 
Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch in the same 
breath. They talk at once, you know. 

Juliet [without smiling and still at her manu- 
script']. Of course, they're both philosophers. 

Romeo. And of the two, I think Mrs. Wiggs 
the less objectionable. 

Juliet. Your predilection for the feminine 
again. Oh, yes, let's begin where I tell you not 
to eat any green apples as you go home through 
my orchard. Oh, and by the way [in a very off- 

126 



ENTR' ACTE 



hand nianner]^ in the balcony scene or anywhere 
else you are not to kiss me. They all say you 
are going to. 

Romeo. The play calls for it. 

Juliet [sarcastically and not looking at him^. 
My copy doesn't. 

Romeo. Perhaps they left it out in order to 
give you a pleasant surprise. 

Juliet. You might refer to other copies. 

Romeo [bridling^. Do you mean to insinuate 
that I inserted that stage direction in my copy? 

Juliet. I don't insinuate anything but I give 
you fair warning that if you try it, I shall slap you. 
[^Speaks slowly and jiriJily hut lightly.'] 

Romeo [haughtily and looking very angry]. 
You evidently think that I am extremely anxious 
to kiss you. 

Juliet. Oh, not me, particularly. But I 
shall be looking very nice — and I know you. I 
warn you. 

Romeo. You don't know me so well maybe as 
you think you do. 

Juliet. Oh, yes, I do. Every girl knows 
the man who has — who has — 

Romeo. Been in love with her. 

Juliet. Thank you. Yes, been in love with 
her. But she is foolish to tell him so. 

Romeo. It doesn't make much difference 
whether she tells him or not, he feels it any- 
how, like a sort of uncomfortable subconscious 
fact in the pit of his stomach. 

Juliet. You always were figurative. 

Romeo. Thank you. [Looks down at his 
figure and then strikes an attitude in front of the 

127 



SHORT PLAYS 



long glass and regards his reflection. Juliet also 
surveys him up and down.] I have had one or 
two compliments upon it but I scarcely expected 
one from you — now. 

Juliet [in a sort of embarrassed coolness]. 
Oh, I'd like you to know that I think it is aw- 
fully hard on you to have to make love now to a 
girl you hate, but you needn't think it's very much 
pleasanter for me. 

Romeo. I don't. 

Juliet. And I want you to understand dis- 
tinctly that I had nothing whatever to do with 
casting the characters of this ridiculous play. 

Romeo. It would never have occurred to me 
to credit you with so much craft. 

Juliet. Oh, you think I'm not smart enough 
to cook up something that would make you un- 
comfortable ? 

Romeo [gesturing with his hand to his stom- 
ach']. I have already alluded to a man's sub- 
conscious sensation. I ate what you once cooked 
up for me. 

Juliet. It isn't exactly delightful to be 
thought stupid. 

Romeo. I never thought you stupid. But 
you have always attributed to me whatever 
thoughts you thought I ought to think, and never 
believed me when I swore I could think other 
thoughts. Keep right on doing it. It doesn't 
make matters any worse. 

Juliet. I do so hate a stubborn man. 

Romeo. Don't put yourself to the embarrass- 
ment of expressing your feeling toward me. 
[He goes over to a chair and sits down.] Since 

128 



ENTR' ACTE 



you broke our engagement [looking at his manu- 
script^ — I haven't deluded myself. 

Juliet. Whether you believe it or not, I did 
not have anything to do with casting this play. 
Or rather, I tried very hard to have it cast dif- 
ferently. I wanted them to let Carmen take the 
part of Juliet. I know how agreeable It would 
be for you to play with her. 

Romeo [curtly']. So good of you. 

Juliet. But there was the song and [with a 
little malice] — she can't sing. 

Romeo. Perhaps not, but I understand she 
can dance. It's rather fashionable nowadays. 
Has almost superseded singing, hasn't it? 

Juliet. With you, doubtless. You always 
were so up-to-date. 

Romeo. Always were. [Getting up.] By 
Jove, you keep referring to the past like the haunt- 
ing ghost of a man's first wife. 

Juliet. I hope Carmen's dancing will give 
you enough joy to enable you to bear my sing- 
ing. I'm sorry you can't have her in my part. 

Romeo. Thank you, I can get along without 
your pity. Why don't you keep a little of it for 
yourself? It seems to me that you have to pre- 
tend to a little fondness for me, too. 

Juliet. Oh, only In a song and a song Is so 
impersonal. Anyway, I'll sing it to the audience. 

Romeo. In the legitimate way — with your 
left eye on the leader of the orchestra and your 
right eye on the gallery, with the fingers of 
your left hand tearing up my wig and your right 
hand gesticulating to whomsoever may be look- 
ing. 

129 



SHORT PLAYS 



Juliet. You needn't be afraid that I'll touch 
your wig. It's too bad this play couldn't have 
been given a month ago when we were in love 
with each other, isn't it? Don't you think we 
might as well go on with our parts now? 

[^They both refer to their manuscripts again.'] 

Romeo. It's the balcony scene I need most to 
go over. Here, sit on this chair [he hands one 
out to the center of the room and she sits down 
in it] and I'll sit on the arm. [He sits dozvn on 
the arm of the chair and puts his arm round her. 
She immediately starts up and away from him.] 

Juliet. It's not necessary for you to do that. 

Romeo. But I have to in the play. 

Juliet. You do it quite naturally enough 
without any rehearsing. 

Romeo. Oh, if you are going to be so par- 
ticular, there's no use in rehearsing at all. 

[Carmen enters unobserved from the same 
door at the side through which Romeo and 
Juliet came. She is rather small, is dark, 
gay and piquant. She is dressed in brilliant 
red and carries a tambourine.] 

Carmen [aside]. Oh, look who's here! 
Hello, Romeo and Juliet, billing and cooing as 
usual? [Romeo jumps to his feet and Juliet and 
he both look embarrassed and very much an- 
noyed.] Please don't let me Interrupt you. 

Romeo. We just came in here to rehearse. 

Carmen. Of course. It's quite natural, I'm 
sure, that you should like to do it alone. That's 
one advantage of having rehearsals in a private 
house — the — lobby rooms. Because, you know, 
rnany come to rehearse who remain to play. 

130 



ENTR' ACTE 



Romeo. But why on earth should they want 
to give a play as big as this one In a private house? 
It ought to be in a hall. A big play for a well- 
known charity — the — the — [looks appealingly 
at Juliet']. 

Juliet [prompting him]. " Society for the 
Erection of Portable Patent Swings for the Chil- 
dren of Scrub Women." 

Romeo. Yes, just what I was going to say. 

Carmen. I don't entirely wonder that you 
hesitated to say It. Why, my dear boy, by do- 
ing this the elite of the blanc mange hope to en- 
tice the hoy-paloy to come and thereby to rake 
In the dirty dollars of the hoy-paloy by the in- 
ducement of the opportunity of entering a house 
they would never have the opportunity of seeing 
otherwise. It's the diplomacy of philanthropy. 
But, dear me, go right on with your rehearsal, 
don't let me interrupt you. I just came In here 
to see If I could find my slippers. 

Romeo [stepping forward, glad of an excuse]. 
Can I be of any assistance to you? 

Carmen. Oh, will you? You are so kind. 
You see It Is very awkward. I can't remember 
where I left my slippers, the ones I am to dance 
In. It's awfully awkward. 

Juliet. I should think you might be. 
Everything depends on the slippers, doubtless. 

Carmen [sweetly]. Not everything, dear. 
There are a few other things — myself, for in- 
stance. 

Romeo [gallantly]. Which means your grace- 
fulness. 

Carmen. Oh, thank you. [Courtesies to 



SHORT PLAYS 



him.'] What a courtier you are, Signor Romeo ! 

Romeo. Oh, nothing to mention. 

Carmen. But if you are used to slippers, they 
are almost necessary. 

Romeo. I should think so. 

Juliet. Quite like morals. 

Carmen. Yes, slippers and morals are con- 
nected, aren't they? 

Juliet. In early youth. 

Carmen [sweetly]. Yes! 

Juliet. Spanking — that obsolete thing — 
the application of morals by the slipper. 

Carmen. Oh, I was referring to their mutual 
absence from the modern dancing. Do you 
know, I hate vulgar allusions. 

Juliet. So do I. Why do you make them, 
then? 

Romeo [breaking in], I think I might as well 
go hunt your slippers. 

Carmen. Oh, you are so thoughtful .* 

Romeo [smiling somewhat grimly]. I don't 
know that I'd call it that. 

Carmen. Oh, yes, you are. Look for them 
down at the front door and bring them back to 
me here. I'll wait for you. 

Juliet [haughtily]. I'll not wait for you. 
If you think we need to go through our parts, 
you may look for me in the drawing-room with 
the others. 

Romeo [to Carmen]. I'll be back in a jiffy. 
[To Juliet.] I think we both need it awfully. 
[Exit.] 

Carmen. Isn't he a dear ! 
132 



ENTR' ACTE 



Juliet. Romeos are a necessary evil. 

Carmen. How awfully cynical. 

Juliet. That's what people always say when 
you tell the truth. Romeo is like maple syrup — 
a little of him goes a long way. 

Carmen. Maple syrup is more comfortable 
to have round than gun-powder, which doesn't go 
a long way, but manages to send other things 
whooping. I am referring to Don Jose. [Sits 
down on the arm of a chair,'] Well, I suppose 
we've all got to have lovers and you can take your 
choice between the two varieties : the kind that 
gets himself into trouble and the kind that gets 
you In. I prefer the kind that gets himself in. 

Juliet. My dear, how experienced you are ! 

Carmen. I reckon we all are, only some of 
us are more candid about It than others. Any- 
how, I was just referring to our stage characters 
' — weren't you? Well, the author of this play 
quite took the worthy English drama Into her 
own hands and mixed it all up till it fairly re- 
sembles real life. It isn't my fault that she didn't 
give me my rightful lover, the Toreador, to fall 
In love with, but substituted Romeo In his place. 
So, I have to flirt with Romeo. It's really an 
awfully sensible arrangement, for In the end when 
Don Jose kills me, Romeo has you to fall 
back on. 

Juliet [ironically']. Only, of course. It will 
be hard on him to have to put up with me after 
you. 

Carmen. Oh, I shall not make myself so 
fascinating to him as I could. [Juliet turns to 

133 



SHORT PLAYS 



^o.] You don't mind my flirting with him, do 
you, dear? 

Juliet {^turning around abruptly^. Why, cer- 
tainly not. What possible difference could it 
make to me? 

Carmen. You don't know how it relieves me 
to find you so indifferent after — after — what 
seemed so obvious. 

Juliet [^confronting Carmen icily']. What 
seemed so obvious? 

Carmen. Oh, nothing to speak of — only 
that you were desperately in love with Romeo. 
\_She goes to the couch and sits down.] 

Juliet. I — • with him ! 

Carmen. I'm glad it seems so preposterous 
to you. Then I shall not feel so conscience- 
stricken when he — when he — 

Juliet. When he makes love to you? Oh, 
dear no ! You quite misunderstand. What pos- 
sible difference could it make to me? Get all the 
pleasure you can out of it. [Turns to go.] I 
believe he does it very nicely. And it may not 
last. 

Carmen. Are you talking about the real 
thing or the stage? 

Juliet [indifferently]. Either — both, if you 
like. [Looking hack over her shoulder as she 
walks out of the room]. I think I hear my 
nurse, the Merry Widow, calling me. [She goes 
out at one side just as Romeo enters from the 
other side. But they have not seen each other.] 

Romeo. Ah, there you are still. I thought 
perhaps you'd not wait. 

Carmen [throwing herself on the couch in a 
134 



ENTR' ACTE 



negligent J enticing attitude^. For you — I'd 
wait — ever so long. 

Romeo [becoming a little more interested and 
approaching her]. Would you? How long? 

Carmen. Oh, for you I'd wait for ages — 
for ever. 

Romeo. I shouldn't ask you. I never want 
any one to wait for me. With me it's touch 
and go. 

Carmen [holding out her hand]. Touch r-^ 
and go — then. Good-by. 

Romeo. Jove, you're in a hurry. You want 
to get rid of me? This doesn't seem to be my 
busy day. Nobody wants me round. 

Carmen. Romeo, you certainly are a de- 
spondent and hot-headed youth. Do you think 
I want to get rid of you? 

Romeo. How on earth should I know? A 
man never knows what a woman wants except 
when she doesn't want it. 

Carmen. There's more truth in that than 
grammar. It sounds learned from experience. 

Romeo. It is. 

Carmen. Do you think if you leave me and 
go to her, you'll get such a warm reception from 
your Juliet? 

Romeo [surprised]. What do you know 
about it? 

Carmen. That's what I thought. Why do 
you go, then? 

Romeo [smiling]. Well, there's the re- 
hearsal. 

Carmen. Oh, nobody's paying any attention 
to that. They're just getting what fun they can 

^35. 



SHORT PLAYS 



out of it. Won't you stay here and play hunt the 
slipper with me? 

Romeo \_coniing up to where she sits^. Oh, 
I forgot to tell you that I couldn't find your slip- 
pers. 

Carmen \_making room for him to sit down']. 
Couldn't you? [He sits down.'] That's not 
surprising. What a nice little dagger. [Playing 
with his dagger.] They weren't there. 

Romeo. What? I beg your pardon? 

Carmen. The slippers. I say they weren't 
there. I knew they weren't. I hadn't lost them 
at all. 

[Romeo leans back in his corner of the couch 
and regards her as she leans hack in her 
corner, and so they gaze at each other for a 
few momeyits.] 

Romeo. Well, by Jove ! 

Carmen. He's a great friend of yours — 
Jove — isn't he? You refer to him so often. 
[Calmly.] No, I hadn't lost my slippers at all. 
I just wanted to see if you'd leave Juliet to do 
something for me. 

Romeo [laughing delightedly]. You are a 
cool little specimen ! 

Carmen. I wanted to see if you like me a lit- 
tle. Do you? 

ROxMEO [coming closer to her]. What would 
you do if I told you a very great deal? 

Carmen. Dance with joy. I can dance well 
enough in these slippers, you know. 

Romeo. Won't you? Forme? 

Carmen. Why, yes, I might as well. I have 
136 



ENTR' ACTE 



to rehearse it anyway. [She gets up and begins 
to make ready for the dance. Music is heard. 
The music used for this dance is Espanita. She 
holds up her head, listening.'] Why, there's the 
music for my dance — they're playing it. [She 
turns to look at him. He looks gloomy.] Oh, 
my Romeo, methinks thou art too heavy. 

Romeo. I'm not heavy at all. I can dance, 
too. 

Carmen. I meant thy heart. I bid thee take 
love lightly. [She begins dancing.] 

Romeo. " As the leaves hang on the tree " ? 
Carmen [going on with her dancing]. Wilt 
thou still be " young and foolish " ? 

[She continues to dance, using a scarf in twist- 
ing folds over her head and about her body. 
Dances for him, looking at him all the while. 
He sits watching her, becoming more and 
more attracted. Watches her very intently. 
He sits over toward her on the sofa. She 
keeps on dancing. He hesitates, moves to 
the very edge of the couch and gives up to a 
rapt attention of her beautiful dancing.] 
Carmen. Or wilt thou — come — to — me ? 
[Low and very slowly.] 

[Romeo finally gets up and glides to her, join- 
ing his hands to hers, which she has 
stretched out to him, she leads him into the 
dance. She has been dancing alone for some 
minutes, they now dance together, and when 
they stop his right arm is behind her, his 
right hand holding hers and her head thrown 
back against his arm, her face looking up into 

137 



SHORT PLAYS 



his, their left hands in front of them also 
clasped. Just at that moment they stop, 
Juliet's voice is heard singing.'] 



Juliet's song. 

Take not, dear love, away 

Thy lips so dear to me ! 

Dear is the night, oh, dark and wondrous 

dear with thee. 
And far away the day! 

Go not, my love, I pray! 

In yon pomegranate tree 

The song, you hear, sweetheart, the song 

can only be 
The nightingale's love-lay! 

No jealous, blushing day 
Nor lark's song chiding me 
For keeping thee, my only love, for hold- 
ing thee, 
Commands thee come away. 



Oh, love, no longer stay. 

Even I must bid thee flee, 

Hark, hark. It is the lark, and In the east 

I see 
The morning's roses gray ! 

Oh, love, begone, begone, 
It is the envious dawn, 
Haste, dear, away! 

138 



ENTR' ACTE 



[^fVhen he first heat's her singing^ Romeo raises 
his head, turns it as if drawn in the direc- 
tion of the singing, till his face is entirely 
away from Carmen, who watches him in- 
tently. He gradually releases her and his 
arms drop to his side. Juliet sings her song 
through and as she does so Romeo gradually 
turns completely from Carmen and finally 
stands with his back to her and facing to- 
ward the singing voice. He raises his head 
and stands with parted lips, listening. A 
smile comes over his face and he seems to 
have completely forgotten Carmen. The 
music approaches. Romeo takes a step for- 
ward. Carmen nods as if in understanding, 
smiles, throws him a kiss and runs silently 
out of the room in the opposite direction 
fro7n the singing. Romeo does not notice 
her. The song ceases and Juliet enters. 
Romeo takes a step forward impidsively to 
meet her, hut she haughtily raises her head 
and gives him a cold, questioning look.l 
Romeo. You'll not resent my admiration of 
your song? 

Juliet. And not the singing? 
Romeo. I meant the singing. 
Juliet. They're all asking for you at the re- 
hearsal. The men say you're soldiering, you're 
not helping to dress the scenes and ought to take 
your share of the heavy work of carrying chairs 
and things, and the women say you're off some- 
where flirting. 

Romeo \_looks around and sees that Carmen 
has gone"]. You see I am alone. \^He smiles.\ 

139 



SHORT PLAYS 



Juliet. Yes, I don't see whoever has just 
gone. 

Romeo. Perhaps you don't see why she went, 
either. 

Juliet. I am not interested in her motives. 

Romeo. I don't think it was a motive. 

Juliet. I am not interested in her impulses. 

Romeo. I don't think it was an impulse. 
My, but your answers are bromidic ! 

Juliet. I am bromidic. 

Romeo. No, by Jove, you're not! You're 
anything but that — you're as rare as roses in a 
desert. 

Juliet [with a S7?iile~\. You mean I'm impos- 
sible. 

Romeo. Not quite — thank Heaven ! — but 
improbable. A near miracle. 

Juliet. I am bromidic and I will be bromidic 
if I want to. I am not interested in her motives 
nor her impulses nor anything else about her. I 
am not interested in her. 

Romeo. Who ? 

Juliet. Carmen, of course. 

Romeo. Neither am I. 

Juliet. Oh ! 

Romeo. Seems like a lie to you, doesn't It? 

Juliet. Very much. 

Romeo. Well, it isn't. 

Juliet [advancin^~\. Are you ever coming 
back to the rehearsal? 

Romeo [advancing a step toward lier'\. Not 
so long as I can keep you here. Not till your 
nurse has called you twice and thrice and four 
times that. Not till those Montagues and Capu- 

140 



ENTR' ACTE 



lets In there \_gestiiri7tg in the direction of the re- 
hearsal^ have all murdered each other in their 
wretched wrangling. 

Juliet [smiling]. They bid fair to. 

Romeo. Your song was wonderful. It made 
me forget everything — that we had ever quar- 
reled — that you had changed. [She gives a 
quick start and questioning look at him.] It took 
me back to the time when I was happy — and 
for these few minutes afterward I am still in 
my dream. I cannot pull myself out of it. Do 
you remember that night in May? 

Juliet [breathing tensely]. Yes. 

Romeo. In your garden where the locust 
tree was all in bloom, and the day-time busy bees 
had left it to the night and to you and me. And 
the whole world was sweet with the blossoms' 
fragrance. 

Juliet [smiling]. It was the pomegranate 
tree. 

Romeo. And in the branches late — oh, very 
late — we heard a little bird wake and sing a few 
sleepy notes? 

Juliet [smiling]. It was the nightingale. 

Romeo. And not the bird of dawn, the 
spotted-breast thrush, though love would have me 
stay until that same brown thrush — 

Juliet [laughing softly]. You mean the 
lark. 

Romeo. — would joyfully announce the 
morn, the dewy, sweet, gray morn, that comes so 
silently and wakes slowly, deliciously, as does a 
maid from sleep, and blushes into the warm fair 
rose of perfect day. 

HI 



SHORT PLAYS 



Juliet. Ah, Romeo! 

Romeo. But whether it be by the white light 
of the moon — 

Juliet. " Oh, swear not by the moon, the in- 
constant moon! " 

Romeo. — or by the full and rosy glow of 
day, whether it be in the warm scented night when 
small white moths go idly flying by like little 
quiet ghosts, and our low words are scarcely heard 
even by each other, or in the open street and in 
the truth of noon [he extends his hand and tak- 
ing hers, falls on his knees and bends over i/] I 
' — love — you ! [His voice is low and slow and 
ardent.~\ 

Juliet. My Romeo! 

[He rises and keeping her hand stands gazing 
at her.] 

Romeo. Ah, tell me a little, give me a little 
joy! 

Juliet. I love thee, too, yet, sweet, it was 
the lark and not the nightingale, and fear barks 
ever at the loitering heels of love. 

Romeo. I do not fear when I can see thine 
eyes — thine eyes that are more bright than stars 
in spring. Or feel thy hand — thy hand that is 
more soft than spring's night wind. Or hear thy 
voice — thy voice that is more mild than show- 
ers of spring. Or — [leaning closer to her~\ 
drink thy breath — thy breath that is more sweet 
than locust flowers. 

[For a few moments they stand close, gazing 
into each other's eyes, then suddenly she 
pulls away from hi7n as if recollecting her- 
self.-] 



ENTR' ACTE 



Juliet. We — we have been rehearsing ! 

Romeo [in an assumed, matter-of-fact tone']. 
Yes, acting our parts. 

Juliet. You were saying your lines. 

Romeo. They are easy lines. 

Juliet. But you thought you were in hard 
lines ! 

Romeo. They become easy when you pull the 
strings. 

Juliet. I was acting. 

Romeo. But now it's between the acts — the 
entr'acte. Besides, I wasn't acting. I haven't 
been all through. 

Juliet \_slowly and in amazement'] . What — 
what are you saying? 

Romeo. Saying? Saying? Why, saying I 
love you, of course. Saying I'm crazy about you 
— crazy as ever. I was too proud to let you 
know — but, Jove, what's the difference? You 
may as well know. I'm so miserable I don't care 
who knows. 

Juliet \_catching her breath]. You — are — 
so — odd! 

Romeo. Worse than odd. I'm a fool — a 
mere fool. 

Juliet. Is it so silly to care for me? 

Romeo. Pretty silly when you despise me. 

Juliet. But isn't unrequited love noble? 
[Romeo opens his lips but says nothing, giving 
her a withering glance.] Besides, how do you 
know I don't? You haven't asked me for ages 
' — not since we quarreled. 

Romeo. Jove, but you're trying! 

Juliet [overstrained and crying at last], 

143 



SHORT PLAYS 



Yes, trying, trying as hard as I can [in a tearful 
voice^, but you won't catch on! [Smiling at him 
wistfully through her tears.'] 

Romeo. Do you mean — ? 

Juliet. Yes, I do. That's just It! That 
I'm a little silly and crazy and everything about 
you, too ! 

Romeo. You — you — witch ! \^He extends 
his arms to her and takes a stride toward her. 
She holds out her arms to him, too. The curtain 
falls just as he reaches herS[ 



144 



A WOMAN'S A WOMAN FOR A' THAT. 
characters as they appear. 

Mrs. Stymie. 

Margaret Blufwell, M.D. 

Niblick Stymie, Mrs. Stymie's only son. 

Miss Iris, a trained nurse. 

A Veterinarian. 

[Scene: The sitting-room in Airs. Sty- 
mie's summer cottage, the Gables, at Little 
Neck Beach. Little Neck Beach is a little old 
New England fishing village that has become 
a fashionable watering-place hut still retains its 
crusted characters and picturesqueness. The 
sitting-room has wicker furniture, including a 
rocking-chair and a couch, a table is strewn 
with books and magazines — summer litera- 
ture; the windows, half curtained, give a view of 
the sea. Mrs. Stymie enters, followed by Dr. 
Blufwell. Mrs. Stymie has much more money 
than she was born with. She is dressed in the 
extreme of the fashion hut her diction has not 
kept pace with her clothes. Dr. Blufwell is 
extremely tailored and wears eye-glasses.^ 

Mrs. Stymie. Well, Doctor, what do you 
think Is the matter with my poor boy? [With 
much agitation.] You may ^s well tell me, for 



SHORT PLAYS 



I've got to know sooner or later and I've steeled 
myself to bear anything. [She weeps aloud.] 

Dr* Blufwell [patting her on the back and 
smoothing her arm]. In times like this, Mrs. 
Stymie, we must be brave. When the situation 
demands our womanly fortitude, we must — er 
— we must — ah — not fail. For that is w^here 
we women show our strength. Men are of 
larger frame than we and have more extensive 
muscular development and unquestionably they 
are an important factor in the industrial world, 
but when it is a matter of intrepidity, of high 
heroism, dear Mrs. Stymie, we are undeniably 
their superiors. Fortitude is a feminine virtue. 

Mrs. Stymie. And I am doing my best to be 
fortuitous ! 

Dr. Blufwell. Think of your dear son and 
try to be calm. 

Mrs. Stymie. Oh, I'm cam, can't you see 
I'm cam! \_JVrings her hands.] Tell me the 
wust! 

Dr. Blufwell. Let me feel your pulse. 
[Mrs. Stymie thrusts her arm out straight into the 
Doctor's face, daubs her eyes with her handker- 
chief, winks hard and gives other signs of great 
emotional excitement.] 

Dr. Blufwell [half to herself]. Are you 
sufficiently prepared? That is the question. 

Mrs. Stymie. Tell me the wust ! 

Dr. Blufwell [keeping her hand, soothing 
and patting her]. It is my opinion after a most 
thorough examination and careful diagnosis that 
your son is suffering from compound oculi pu- 
pillae inflamatis. 

146 



A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 



Mrs. Stymie. Oh, oh! Isn't that dreadful!' 
It couldn't have been wus ! 

Dr. Blufwell [profoundly]. Yes, indeed, 
yes. It might have been ascirides of the ligamen- 
tum pectimentum, or opaque anterior otapahlo- 
mia, or irido-cyclochroiditis, or — 

Mrs. Stymie. Oh, Doctor, don't go on like 
that! 

Dr. Blufwell. Or even this disease might 
be varied by distressing complications. But we 
hope to be able to control it soon and hold it 
in check. It may take some time, as the affec- 
tion seems to be of some standing and has prob- 
ably taken a firm grip of the patient and may 
prove stubborn, but we shall conquer it. We 
must be strong and patient and bear with the 
poor, dear young man. 

Mrs. Stymie. Oh, he's stubborn enough, I 
submit, though I don't know as you are the one 
to say it. A mother may say things about her 
own boy and the same things don't sound so very 
well coming from a young lady like you. 

Dr. Blufwell. You misunderstand me. I 
said the disease was stubborn, not your son. 

Mrs. Stymie. Well, I don't see how that can 
be, I'm sure. In my experience it has always 
been the people as has been stubborn. 

Dr. Blufwell. Suppose we don't discuss it. 

Mrs. Stymie. I was just going to ask you, 
do you feel as component as a man doctor? You 
see I never had a lady doctor before, but they 
said you and a horse doctor were the only ones 
here, and so I had to have you or him. Now, 
Doctor, don't be offended, I was just going to 

147 



SHORT PLAYS 



say that when I heard you was a home — a 
home — 

Dr. Blufwell. I am of the Homoeopathic 
school. 

Mrs. Stymie. Yes, when I heard that you 
was a home pathetic I knew you was all right. I 
believe in home doctors every time. Do you think 
Niblick's disease is contiguous? 

Dr. Blufwell [holds her hand']. One mo- 
ment, please. We shall have to have a trained 
nurse and several other commodities and I will 
telephone for them right away to lose no time. I 
can explain to you afterwards. 

Mrs. Stymie. Don't lose a precious moment. 
The telephone is In that room, make yourself 
perfectly at home. [The doctor goes out and 
is heard distinctly telephoning in the next room. 
Mrs. Stymie sits down and rocks wildly to and 
fro.-] 

Dr. Blufwell. Hello, give me West 19. 
Hello. Is that Miss Iris? Yes. Can you 
come right over to Mrs. Stymie's, the Gables, you 
know, to take charge of a case? Yes. It is a 
very particular case. It is compound ocull pu- 
plllae inflamatls. [Mrs. Stymie groans and 
shakes her head as she rocks violently.] And, by 
the way, to save time, will you stop at the bar- 
ber's and order some leeches sent over? 

Mrs. Stymie. Leeches! Oh, my goodness 
gracious ! 

Dr. Blufwell. We shall have to put them 
on the patient's eyes, you know. Yes. Of a 
most virulent character. I shall expect you im- 
mediately, then. Good-by. [The doctor comes 

148 



A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 



back into the roo77i.~\ That is most satisfactory. 
Miss Iris is a most excellent mirse and will take 
charge of your son. 

Mrs. Stymie. That is just what I am afraid 
of. Trained nurses are so dangerous. 

Dr. Blufwell. Dangerous? 

Mrs. Stymie. Yes, she'll most likely marry 
him. 

Dr. Blufwell. Marry him? 

Mrs. Stymie. That's what they do every 
chance they get. She's likely plotting It all out 
on her way over here now, the little cat! Oh, 
I don't see how I can put up with such Impudence. 
It's more than a devotional mother can bear. 
But maybe you want him for yourself? You 
needn't. Niblick Isn't a marrying man. And It 
won't be worth while for either of you to set your 
cap for him. 

Dr. Blufwell. I set my cap? Let me free 
you at once from any such Idea, Mrs. Stymie. I 
have no intention of marrying your son, or de- 
sire to do so. If you consider It worth your 
while, I am now prepared to explain to you the 
nature of this disease. 

Mrs. Stymie. Now, Doctor, don't you get 
mad. You're so Insensitive. 

Dr. Blufwell. Compound ocull pupillae in- 
flamatis Is a distinctly modern disease. It was 
discovered quite recently by a learned oculist of 
St. Andrews. It affects the pupil of the eye and 
is produced by the game of golf. That is to say, 
by the too strenuous habit of the patient or player 
of keeping his eye on the ball. 

Mrs. Stymie. You mean the ball In his eye. 
149 



SHORT PLAYS 



Dr. Blufwell. No, I mean his eye-ball — 
or rather, his eye on the ball. 

Mrs. Stymie. But how could he? His eye's 
in his head. 

Dr. Blufwell [firmly]. His eye is on the 
ball, if he plays golf. And this continuous cir- 
cumstance produces lesions of the nerves, mus- 
cles, and the blood vessels. The venus and ar- 
terial fluids collect about the eye and it is neces- 
sary to apply leeches. 

Mrs. Stymie. Oh, Doctor, you wouldn't put 
leeches on my dear boy? [Dropping^ into a 
chair.] 

Dr. Blufwell. Dear Mrs. Stymie, remem- 
ber your sex and be brave. One of woman's spe- 
cial aptitudes for the profession of medicine lies 
in her sympathetic temperament. [Gesturing 
radiantly.] We radiate sympathy and love and 
so render it easier for people to bear trouble and 
pain. Let your nature rest upon mine, Mrs. Sty- 
mie. [Sits down in a chair by Mrs. Stymie.] 

Mrs. Stymie. Oh, Doctor, you make it so 
bad. You talk as if you meant to cut off his 
head. 

Dr. Blufwell. So much depends upon the 
mental attitude. 

Mrs. Stymie. Yes, indeed, if you are going 
to lose your head. 

Dr. Blufwell. That I find most people 
need to be treated mentally as well as physically. 
Therefore, I am trying to soothe you into a 
state of tranquillity and strength, so that you may 
not only go through your trial successfully but 



150 



A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 



be able to support your son. He will be so de- 
pendent upon you. 

Mrs. Stymie. Indeed, then, he won't. He 
never is or has been. He Is excruciatingly In- 
dependent, he is. But he has to come to me for 
his money, he's on an allowance. I never made 
over any of the property to him, not an inch. 
Mr. Stymie left it all to me and, thinks I, keep 
it to yourself, don't make a fool old Mrs. Lear 
of yourself, thinks I. , 

\_The bell rings.'] 

Dr. Blufwell \_jumping to her feet]. That 
must be the nurse. 

Mrs. Stymie. Well, she don't let the grass 
grow under her feet, the minx. I'll go to see 
if it's her. \_She goes out of the room. The 
doctor relaxes, zvalks about the room and hums 
to herself in a girlish fashion. Mrs. Stymie 
comes back, followed by the nurse.] 

Dr. Blufwell [shaking hands with the 
7iurse.] How do you do, Miss Iris? [To Mrs. 
Sty77iie.] This is the best nurse we have, Mrs. 
Stymie. 

Mrs. Stymie. She's pretty enough to kill or 
cure, I should think. 

Nurse [looking embarrassed]. If you wuU 
only take me to my patient so that I can get to 
work. I ordered the leeches. Doctor, and they 
will be here right away. 

Mrs. Stymie. I'll take you to Niblick. 
[Mrs, Stymie goes out and the nurse bustles after 
her. The doctor, left alone again, hums a little 
song. Mrs. Stymie comes back, looking indig- 
nant.] Well, I can see her little game fast 

151 



SHORT PLAYS 



enough. She'll marry him if he gives her half 
a chance. She just grabbles with the case now 
as if he had no mother or other female rela- 
tions. And of course, he'll like it. Men al- 
ways do like to be mollycoddled, though some 
may pretend they don't. Oh, she'll get round 
him, but how will she feel when she finds he's a 
pauper? She'll have to come to me for money 
to buy her potatoes and onions and pay her cook 
or else do her own cooking. 

Dr. Blufwell. Don't you consider your 
son a trifle young to marry? 

Mrs. Stymie. Of course he is, but that 
won't keep her from it. \^The nurse comes back, 
sinoothing her apron and adjusting her cap.~\ 

Nurse. I'm all settled now. 

Mrs. Stymie. Well, you beat the Jews ! 

Nurse. And ready to go to work. What 
are your directions. Doctor? 

Djr. Blufwell. The leeches have not yet ar- 
rived. So [looking at her watch']^ I shall go out 
and make another call. In the meantime, you 
may take his temperature and feel his pulse and 
arrange things for the application of the leeches. 
And prepare the patient for the operation. 
Soothe and encourage him until his nerves are 
calmed down and he is in a fit condition. Exert 
all your influence and sympathy. Remember the 
value of your being a woman and bring all the 
advantages of your womanly sympathies and ten- 
derness to bear in overcoming his great nervous- 
ness. He will probably be very much agitated 
when he hears of the leeches. I shall be back 
shortly. [She goes out, leaving Mrs. Stymie and 

152 



A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 



the nurse alone together. They gaze at each 
other uncomfortably, Mrs, Stymie hostile and 
zvatchfid, the nurse self-conscious and concilia' 
tory.'] 

Nurse [^breaking the uncomfortable silence']. 
Your son's eyes are very sore. He must have 
studied awfully hard. 

Mrs. Stymie [snappishly]. Studied! He 
never studied in his life. 

Nurse. Then Is It the result of an Illness? 

Mrs. Stymie. No such thing. [She sits 
down and rocks. She rocks violently much of 
the time.] 

Nurse. But something must have produced 
It. 

Mrs. Stymie [wrathfidly]. He played golf 
and kept his eye on the ball instead of in his 
head, where anybody's eye ought to be. Oh, 
he ain't such an easy one to manage as you 
think. He played golf all the time, and it went 
to his head, I believe, for he talked a lot of gib- 
berage that no one could understand but some 
other cranks just like himself, and I think they 
just pretended to. I thought he would end In 
a constitute for the insane. That's why I came 
to Little Neck Beach for the summer — there 
wasn't any golf here. But what do those young 
scape-graces do but lay out a little golf court and 
make little pudding-greens, as they call 'em, in 
the back yards, to practise on. Oh, he's as set 
In his ways as anything. He's a perfect pillow 
of salt. And he hasn't got no money either. It's 
all In my name. 

Nurse. I don't know whether I am ex- 

153 



SHORT PLAYS 



pected to sympathize with him or exult with you 
over that circumstance. 

Mrs. Stymie. Maybe you ain't no call to do 
either. 

Nurse. I think I better go to my patient. 

Mrs. Stymie. Oh, you needn't be in such a 
hurry. Maybe Niblick can get along without you 
for a few minutes. He did tolerable well when 
he had only me to take care of him. Do you 
like nursing? 

Nurse. I love it. 

Mrs. Stymie. I should think that might de- 
pend on the patient. 

Nurse. It is a noble profession. 

Mrs. Stymie. How long have you been at 
It? You sound like a beginner. 

Nurse. Oh, I am an old nurse. 

Mrs. Stymie. Well, for goodness' sake, how 
old was you when you begun? 

[Niblick enters in a long dressing-gown and 
slippers. He is indigo about the eyes, sun- 
burned, and generally very forlorn looking.'] 

Mrs. Stymie [throwing up her hands, aghast']. 
Oh, Niblick! 

Niblick. If the nurse won't come to the pa- 
tient, the patient must come to the nurse, a la 
Mahomet. I'm tired of that hole upstairs and 
my eyes hurt like the dev — like the dickens. I 
believe I'll go practise putting a little. [To 
nurse.] Would you mind being my caddy? I 
say, you're a sight for sore eyes! 

Nurse. Oh, please, you oughtn't to be walk- 
ing about in this way. 



154 



A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 



Niblick. Why not? This can't hurt my 
eyes — I'm not standing on my head. 

Nurse. I know you are not, but the doctor 
left orders that you are to be kept very quiet. 

Niblick. Well, I don't call this madly ex- 
citing, do you? 

Mrs. Stymie. Oh, no, this ain't exciting at 
all, and you are not getting yourself all nervous 
and feverish with your paroquetting up and 
down, and your eyes — they're not a bit blue and 
sore, oh, there's really nothing the matter with 
your eyes. 

Niblick. Mother is f-ronical. 

Nurse. But really and truly you ought to lie 
down or at least sit down. You ought to be en- 
tirely still — the doctor's orders were very ex- 
plicit on that point. 

Mrs. Stymie. Niblick, why don't you mind 
the doctor's interjections? 

Niblick. Do you know it is so singularly ap- 
propriate that my mother's name should be Sty- 
mie because — do you play golf? Well, it is so 
hard to get around her, you know. 

Mrs. Stymie. You good-for-nothing boy, 
with your jokes, when you ought to be a-bed this 
minute. 

Niblick. She's nobody's foo-zle, are you, 
mother? Well, if I can't putt I guess I'll have to 
puff. [He goes to the table and takes up a ciga- 
rette box from which he extracts a cigarette.'\ 

Nurse. Oh, you oughtn't to smoke. 

Niblick. That's what all the girls say. 

Nurse. But you shouldn't do it. 

Niblick. That's what the doctor says. 
^S5 



SHORT PLAYS 



Nurse. But you mustn't. 

Niblick. That's what my mother says. 

Nurse. Smoke will be the very worst thing 
in the world for your eyes. If you could only 
see how blue and sore they look, you would take 
pity on them. 

Niblick. Td rather have you pity them. 

Nurse. They are so blue they are actually 
purple. 

Niblick. Are they? Isn't that nice? Do 
you remember the robber's daughter, " Gentle 
Alice Brown," in the ballad? She loved a gen- 
tleman with " pretty purple eyes." Do you re- 
member? I wonder if any other girl would like 
a gentleman with pretty purple eyes. [Scrutiniz- 
ing her face.'] Oh, by the way, you have blue 
eyes, too — isn't that a coincidence? We might 
have a four-ball foursome, a four-eye-ball four- 
some, you know. Now, don't look offended. 
I didn't say high-ball. \_He is about to light the 
cigarette.] 

Nurse. Mrs. Stymie, we must do something 
to prevent this. He must not smoke. 

Mrs. Stymie [resolutely rocking]. Very 
well, then take it from him. 

Nurse. I'm afraid I can't. 

Mrs. Stymie [getting up]. I'll hold it while 
you snatch it. [They tussle with Niblick, Mrs. 
Styfnie throwing her arms about him while the 
nurse snatches at the cigarette,] 

Niblick [laughing then shouting]. Oh, Jove, 
my eyes. [He stumbles and they help him to a 
couch in the center of the hack of the room, where 
he lies down with his hands over his eyes,] 

IS6 



A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 



Mrs. Stymie. I told you so. [The doorbell 
rings.^ 

Nurse. That must be the doctor or the 
leeches. I'll go see. [She goes 0111.1 

Niblick [looking through his fingers, grinning, 
but his mother does not see him do it. She 
fusses about.'] What are they going to do with 
leeches? 

Mrs. Stymie. Put them on your eyes. 

Niblick. Who is, the nurse? 

Mrs. Stymie. The nurse or the doctor, I re- 
sume. 

Niblick [chuckling], I rather fancy it will 
take both of them and I am willing to have the 
leeches for the fun of watching those two women. 
I bet they will be afraid of the varmints. Did 
you ever touch a leech, mother? 

Mrs. Stymie. Goodness, no! 

Niblick. Did you ever see one? 

Mrs. Stymie. No, what are they like? 

Niblick. A cross between a snake and a fish- 
worm. 

Mrs. Stymie. Mercy me ! 

Niblick. If you never touched one, I sup- 
pose one never touched you. 

Mrs. Stymie. Niblick, what do you mean? 

Niblick. Oh, nothing, only I have a rather 
intimate knowledge of leeches and I was won- 
dering how you would like them on closer ac- 
quaintance. 

Mrs. Stymie. How did you find out so much 
about them? 

Niblick*. Well, you know boys are rather apt 
to find out about things — bugs and beasts and 

^57. 



SHORT PLAYS 



beetles and things. And I was once a boy. 
I With a deep sigh.'] 

Mrs. Stymie. You never brought any into 
the house, Niblick? 

Niblick. No, not leeches. There are not 
many houses swampy enough to suit their consti- 
tutions. But I used to wade in that pond in the 
woods back of grandfather's place, in order to 
let them attach themselves to my toes. It was an 
interesting experiment and fun to watch. They 
are really very intelligent little animals — they 
are not at all slow about catching on. \^The 
nurse enters with a pill box in her hand.'] 

Nurse. Here are the leeches. 

Niblick. In a pill box, too. Do I swallow 
one every hour until I feel the effect? 

Nurse [making a wry face and lifting the lid 
of the box, then clapping it down quickly again]. 
Oh, the horrible things! 

Mrs. Stymie \_walks to the nurse and they 
inspect the leeches together]. Ain't they ugly? 
Ugh! They are the most disgruntling things I 
ever saw ! 

Niblick [looking at the women with a wave 
of his hand]. Behold the leech-gatherers! 

Gather the leeches while you may, 
Old Time is still a-flying, 
And that same leech that bites to-day, 
To-morrow may be dying. 

Mrs. Stymie. Leech-gatherers, indeed! Not 
me! I wouldn't touch one of the squirmy things 
with a ten-foot pole. How they wriggle. Do 
they bite? 

158 



A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 



Niblick. Just try one. It is generally sup- 
posed they do. And that they not only bite but 
stay biting. That's their — what's the French 
for it, Miss Iris? — their raison d'etre. And 
that's why anybody who puts his fangs into your 
leg and hangs on is called a leech. {With solid- 
tilde.'] I believe you are afraid of them, mother. 

Mrs. Stymie. Well, I guess I am, I make no 
bones about it. I never did like worms and 
these are far more disgruntling than any worms 
I ever seen. You'd best just shut them up, Miss 
Iris, till the doctor comes. She's so intricate that 
they won't frighten her. 

Nurse. Can I have a pan of water and a drop 
or two of cream? 

Mrs. Stymie. Certainly. I'll call the maid 
to get them for you. \_She goes out.'] 

Niblick. What are you going to do with the 
water and cream? 

Nurse. The water is to put the leeches in. 

Niblick. Why do you put them in water? 

Nurse. To tell which is the head and which 
the tail. They both look alike you know. 

Niblick. Why is it necessary to tell which 
is the head and which is the tail? 

Nurse. Because you don't want to take hold 
of them by the head — you seize the tail. 

Niblick. Oh, I see. 

Leeches are like poppies spread. 
You seize the tail and not the head. 

{There is a knock at the door. The nurse 
goes to the door and is handed by a ?naid a 
pan of water and a small glass of cream. 



SHORT PLAYS 



She sets them on a table and opens the box 
of leeches, pouring them into the pan of 
water.~\ 

Niblick. Won't you please show them to 
me? 

Nurse. I don't think you ought to see them, 
they are so horrible. 

Niblick. I could look at you for an anti- 
dote. 

Nurse. Oh, dear, they are trying to crawl 
out. {^She pokes at them with a paper-cutter 
from the table.'] 

Niblick \_threateningly]. If you don't bring 
them right here, I'll get up again. 

Nurse. Oh, please don't do that. 

Niblick. Look here, I bet I'm not fooling 
you, and I wouldn't want to if I could. I'll make 
a clean breast of it all to you. There's nothing 
the matter with my eyes. They were a little in- 
flamed from the dazzling light on the water yes- 
terday when I took a sail and that put the idea into 
my head. You see there's a garden party this 
afternoon my mother was going to haul me to, 
so I thought up this scheme to get out of going 
and to have a joke on her. I painted my eyes 
with blue water colors — fine, deep blue sea ef- 
fect. Perfectly easy to produce. 

Nurse [shrieking with laughter']. Oh, you 
perfectly dreadful young person! 

Niblick. It worked out better than I could 
have dreamed. You've come. Do sit down. 
[She sits down beside him, now much amused by 
him.] Queer things, aren't they? Something 
like caterpillars, only they have no hair. They 

1 60 



A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 



remind me of Mexican dogs. That's right! 
They bear about the same relation to a cater- 
pillar that a Mexican does to a real canine. 

Nurse. They are dreadful things — so un- 
canny. It seems strange to me that doctors still 
use them. [Continues to poke at the leeches.'] 

Niblick. To me, too. It's all rot, you 
know. They might just as well use something 
decenter. Don't you bother with them any more. 
Just dump them into that Rookwood vase and 
set that ash-tray on top and let them go. They 
couldn't get out and they'll worry the life out of 
you that way. 

Nurse. What a beautiful piece of pottery! 
[Looking at the vase.] 

Niblick. Isn't it, though. It is made in my 
home, Cincinnati, you know. And it is all-fired 
expensive. 

Nurse. I suppose it is the firing that makes 
it so. 

Niblick [laughing]. Say, that's not bad — 
that. A hot shot, as it were. [The nurse 
laughs.] Well, I don't know, they say it's the 
art and they say art's long but it isn't so often 
that you have to pay the long cool green for the 
art that's long while time is fleeting. I play 
shorts myself. And I'm not long on art. Any- 
how Rookwood is awful dear. It's a case of 
where an ounce of pottery is worth a hundred 
weight of clay. 

Nurse. Then I should never dare to put the 
leeches into it. 

Niblick. Well, do something with them. 
Dump them on the floor and step on them. You 

i6i 



SHORT PLAYS 



can tell the doctor It was accidental or that I did 
it in a fit of delirium. I need your attention. 
My eyes hurt like the dickens [with a grimace'^ 
and I believe it would do me a lot of good to 
have you stroke my head. Kill the beasts — step 
on them. 

Nurse. Oh, goodness, don't speak of such a 
thing! It would be much worse than cru — 
crush — crushing a caterpillar. 

Niblick. You are mighty game to stand there 
poking at them when you really hate them so 
tenderly. Are you going to apply them to my 
head — their heads to mine — a head end col- 
lision? Or Is it a collusion between the doctor 
and you? Which does It — you? 

Nurse. I! Heaven forbid! 

Niblick. But I thought trained nurses were 
nervy? 

Nurse. So they are. But a thing like this 
is different. ' Quite different. It is in the nature 
of an operation and the doctor will do it. It is 
her place to. 

Niblick. I bet she'll shy at it, too. 

Nurse. Of course she will not. 

Niblick. Of course she will. She's a 
woman. 

Nurse. She Is a doctor. 

Niblick. She is a woman for a' that. 

Nurse. But she is a doctor! 

Niblick. What's in a name? A woman by 
any other name would be as weak. 

Nurse. You are epigrammatic. 

Niblick. You are sarcastic. But I forgive 
you. For I suppose you have to stand up for 

162 



A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 



each other. It's all In the day's work. I won- 
der if she really thinks I've got anything the mat- 
ter with my eyes? Or if she's bluffing? The 
paint isn't even skin deep, you know. Please 
don't you give me away! [Entreatin^ly.~\ And 
I'll make a bargain with you to take you out as 
often as you want in my new sail boat — when 
my eyes get well again, of course. [He grins.'] 
I wonder, though, about that doctor? Is she on 
or isn't she? I suppose 

She has knowledge of germs and of tissues, 
Of fevers and fractures and sprains, 
She knows the directions and issues 
Of the arteries, nerves and the veins. 
She is wise in the use of narcotic, 
She's past-master of agues and gout. 
She can manage a patient neurotic, 
She's a skilful physician, no doubt, 
But one thing will baffle her learning. 
When it comes to a deal with a leech, 
You can bet on a grand overturning. 
And there'll be a deal of a screech. 

Nurse. Is that original? 

Niblick. Well, everything is original once. 
Come, don't be mad. Let's be friends. [He 
sits up.'] Put a book on them. There is one 
big enough to cover the pan. I said just now 
what's in a name, but I was only quoting, for I 
think there's lots in a name. They are most curi- 
ous things. There is the name of Bunker Hill; 
that is — what would our old professors have 
called it? — tautological, for a bunker, — but you 
don't play golf — well, a bunker Is a sort of lit- 

163 



SHORT PLAYS 



tie hill Itself. Then, there is your name, Iris — 
and behold ! You take the eye of all beholders I 
Do you know I believe this disease I am suffer- 
ing from is Iritis? [Airs. Styjnie comes in again 
and the nurse and Niblick jump iip.~\ 

Mrs. Stymie. Hasn't that doctor got back 
yet? It seems to me she might hurry a little. 

Niblick [moaning and lying down again]. 
She is confounded slow, and me suffering so. 
Miss Iris here seems to have no feeling for me at 
all. She plays with those contemptible angle 
worms and lets me howl with pain all the while. 

Mrs. Stymie [glowering at the nurse]. You 
shouldn't neglect your patient. Miss Iris. I'm 
shocked at you. [Niblick grins.] 

Nurse. Oh, Mrs. Stymie, you don't under- 
stand. I can not leave these things a moment or 
they would crawl out, and there is really nothing 
I could do for him just now. 

Niblick. You could stroke my head Instead 
of letting me bear such tortures unaided and 
alone. You could soothe me and calm me down. 

Mrs. Stymie. That is true enough, nurse. 
[Sitting down.] The doctor told you to prepare 
him for the alteration, to make him brave and 
to pacify him. There is so much In that, you 
know — that's what the doctor says. She says 
you have to doctor their minds as well as their 
bodies — I mean they have to, the doctors. And 
she says that lady-like doctors — I mean lady 
doctors are so sympathutic and loving, and that 
that Is one of their special platitudes for the pro- 
fession. We didn't have lady doctors In my day 
or I might have been one myself. I think It 

164 



A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 



is a very nice calling for a lady. Not only their 
loving and sympathutic natures, but the doctor 
says they are so much braver than men. And I 
myself know that they are much more used to 
houses and take to sickness more naturally, sick- 
ness being their natural spere, as you might say. 
\^The nurse puts down the pail on the table and 
sits down by it, while Mrs. Stymie goes on rock- 
ing in great undulations to and fro.'\ 

Niblick. But I thought you called in this 
doctor because she was the only one in the place. 

Mrs. Stymie. Maybe I did, but that was be- 
fore I looked into the matter of lady doctors. 

Niblick. You prefer them to horse doctors. 
I believe you said there were only the two styles 
in the place, the lady and the horse, and it came 
to be a choice between them, the lady or the 
horse, a sort of lady or the tiger affair. She 
must be very popular to have to stay so long. 
Well, popularity pays its price, which aphorism, 
by the way, is double-jointed, I mean it works 
both ways. Popularity costs a huge sum in the 
beginning, but after a while it begins to pay for 
itself. It is what you might call a lucrative in- 
vestment, if you don't mind the trouble. Mother, 
why don't you save time by going out to watch 
for the doctor? 

Mrs. Stymie. Why, perhaps I'd better. 
\She goes out and Niblick immediately gets up 
and goes over to the nurse.'\ 

Niblick. Won't you drop those blood-suck- 
ers now and kill them? That would be a case of 
the biter bit. 



1 6s 



SHORT PLAYS 



Nurse. I'm afraid it would be a bitter bite 
for me when the doctor comes. 

Niblick. Oh, by the way, I wonder if she 
plays golf? So many doctors do. They have 
taken up the game recently, you know. And a 
very curious fact has been observed in regard to 
them. The surgeons invariably slice their balls, 
while the osteopathists always pull theirs. 

Nurse. Are you very fond of golf? 

Niblick. Well, rather. Our course at home 
is very hilly and some men object to it on that 
account, but I say everything has its ups and 
downs and the course of true golf never did run 
smooth. [The bell rin^s.~\ ^ 

Nurse. That must be the doctor now. 

Niblick. Enter the doctor, commander of 
leeches ! Now will she \yoith elaborate gestures\ 
marshal her forces and bravely lead the on- 
slaught. Look out for the fun ! For the Lord's 
sake, now, don't you give me away! Remember 
the coming sails out on the deep blue sea — my lit- 
tle boat is a stunner, certain sure. \He lies back 
on the couch and covers himself up with a rug as 
the doctor and Mrs. Stymie enter. ~\ 

Dr. Blufwell [smiling benignly^. Well, 
how are the eyes? 

Niblick. Very painful. Doctor, very pain- 
ful. When do you expect to have them cured? 
Don't you think it's ^igh time? 

Dr. Blufwell [patting him on the shoulder^. 
I am greatly pleased that you are able to joke, 
Mr. Stymie. It augurs well for the future and 
proves that Miss Iris here has been doing her 
duty and preparing you for the coming ordeal. 

i66 



A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 



NiBiCK. She has spent her time most profita- 
bly in proving to her own satisfaction that a 
watched leech never crawls. I suppose, Doctor, 
you are not afraid of a leech? 

Dr. Blufwell. I ? Certainly not. 

Niblick. Because my mother here is. Most 
women are, I believe, afraid of — well, some- 
thing or other. By the way, why is a woman like 
a woodpecker? Give it up? Because she can 
run up a long bill. Why is she different? Be- 
cause a woman will turn from a worm while a 
bird bolts — It. By the way, have you ever no- 
ticed that it is never the worm who turns but al- 
ways the woman. That's rather bad — isn't it? 
But what better can you expect from a poor fel- 
low in agony like me. The victim of leeches 
will make foolish speeches. 

Dr. Blufwell [she has been taking off her 
gloves ^nd otherwise preparing for the fray~\. 
Nurse, Is everything ready? 

Nurse. Everything, I think. The leeches 
are here In this pan and seem to be pretty 
lively. 

Dr. Blufwell [investigating them']. Quite 
so. I think they will take hold nicely. 

Nurse. And the cream is In this little tumb- 
ler. 

Dr. Blufwell. I see. Do you think you 
have prepared the patient sufficiently. [Laying 
her hand on Niblick's shoulder.'] Do you feel 
quite calm and happy? 

Niblick. Well, I'm not sure I ever sized up 
such a situation. [Stares and blinks hard.] I 
don't think I feel overly happy, though I felt 

167 



SHORT PLAYS 



much worse when I was beaten ten down and lost 
the match for the club. 

Dr. Blufwell. Let me feel your pulse. 
[She feels his pn!se.~\ Hum! Well, I think we 
may go ahead, nurse. His pulse is about normal 
and I think you said his temperature had not risen 
perceptibly. I will put on the cream. [She dips 
her finger in the cream and dabs it around 
Niblick's eye — steps back and regards the effect 
with her head on one side.l^ Now, you may ap- 
ply the leeches. 

Nurse. I? 

Dr. Blufwell. Certainly. Who else? 

Nurse. Yon/ 

Dr. Blufwell. Oh, no, indeed. It is the 
nurse's place to apply the leeches. 

Nurse. But I — I — I can't touch them. 

Mrs. Stymie. No more could I. 

Dr. Blufwell. But who else will? 

Nurse. Why, you, of course. 

Dr. Blufwell. But I have to direct the op- 
eration. [Niblick gives a suppressed snort.^ 

Nurse. I am very sorry, but I never saw 
any one do it in my life and I don't know how. 

Dr. Blufwell. But I can easily tell you 
how. Just take hold of the tail. 

Nurse [giving a little scream']. Oh, I 
couldn't, really! Don't you understand? I — I 
— I am afraid of them. 

Dr. Blufwell [looking frightened]. Non- 
sense ! 

Nurse. I can't, I tell you. 

Dr. Blufwell. But you must. 

Nurse. I should let it drop. 
i68 



A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 



Niblick \_giving an unearthly chuckle and is 
seen to shake]. I — I believe I've got a chill. 

Nurse. Doctor, you'll have to. 

Dr. Blufwell. No, it wouldn't do at all 
for me to do it. Isn't there some one else we 
can get? 

Niblick [coughing violently]. There's the 
horse-doctor. 

Mrs. Stymie. Oh, shall I send for him? 
Just as you say, Doctor. I can have Thompson 
go and fetch him at once, though I suppose his 
boots will be very muddy. 

Dr. Blufw^ell. Well, you see It's rather 
awkward, because I — I don't consult with him. 
He's — well, he's of a different school, you know. 
[She walks up and down.] Miss Iris, won't you 
— won't you try to — to — take hold of one of 
them — with a handkerchief, you know. 

Nurse. Oh, please. Doctor, don't make me I 
They are such horrid things. They squirm and 
twist and act just like snakes and they grow in 
such dirty, oozy, sHmy, boggy places. And then, 
besides that they do bite so. If I took one of 
them by the tail he would be sure to fling his 
head around and hit me and begin to bite. And 
when they take hold, you never, never can make 
them let go till they drop off, when they are quite 
full and can't hold another drop. They begin by 
being quite thin and they end by looking like 
toy balloons. Oh, I couldn't stand It, really, 
Doctor. 

Dr. Blufwell [coaxingly]. But just try it, 
won't you, please? [Nervously.] 



169 



SHORT PLAYS 



Nurse. It makes the cold chills run up and 
down my back just to think of it. 

Dr. Blufwell. Here is my handkerchief. 
Just try. That one now. 

Nurse [trembling as she takes the handker- 
chief]. I know I can't. It makes the cold chills 
run up and down my back. If it bites me I 
know I shall die. \_Some time is taken up while 
she hesitates and selects her leech. She finally 
takes hold of it by the tail. It wriggles, she 
screams and lets it fall back into the pan.] It 
may cost me my reputation but it is utterly impos- 
sible for me to do it. 

Dr. Blufwell [looking much worried. She 
walks up and down. Mrs. Stymie wrings her 
hands]. It is a most embarrassing situation. Of 
course I can't consult with a veterinary, that is 
out of the question. And yet, who else is there? 
It is very unfortunate, Miss Iris, that you are so 
— so timid. Won't you try just once more? 

Nurse. Oh, Doctor, I should just drop it 
again. 

Dr. Blufwell. I suppose I shall have to do 
it, though it — it — it's most unprofessional. 
[Plenty of time is taken and the scene is very tense 
while the doctor seizes her handkerchief and 
after many false starts grabs a leech, holds it 
aloft, leaning away from it, and moves cautiously 
towards the couch. The leech wriggles, swings 
hack, and the doctor trembles, jumps, and lets it 
fall to the floor, shrieking much louder than the 
nurse. All the women scream, Mrs, Stymie 
mounts a chair and Niblick shouts, then chokes 



170 



A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 



and rolls over with his face to the wall to hide his 
laughter.^ 

Nurse. Oh, what shall we do? Do you 
think It will stay where It Is? 

Mrs. Stymie. Who will pick It up? I shan't 
stir tin some one does. Oh, do you suppose It 
can climb a chair? \^She looks out of the win- 
dow.'] Oh, the ways of Providence! There is 
that Horse-Doctor now! 

Nurse. Oh, call him In! Call him in quick! 

Dr. Blufwell. Per — per — perhaps you'd 
better. 

Mrs. Stymie \_gesticulating wildly from the 
window]. Horse-Doctor! Horse-Doctor! Come 
up here quick. Hurry, Hurry, Hurry! He's 
coming! He's coming! He's running! 

Dr. Blufwell. I — I — I am so nervous 
to-day that my hand shook so I couldn't hold It. 

Mrs. Stymie. I should think it did and a 
pretty state we're in now. That leech looks to 
me like It was moving. I do believe it Is! If It 
starts to climb this chair I don't know what I shall 
do ! Oh, if that horse-doctor doesn't come I 
shall have nervous persuasion. 

\^The Horse-Doctor enters at this climax. He 
is a very dreadful person with full red whis- 
kers and a red face. He wears an old 
rumpled silk hat, a violent red necktie, a 
mussed and muddy linen duster nearly to his 
heels, and he carries a carriage whip.] 

Horse-Doctor. Well, is the house on fire or 
what on earth is the matter? I thought maybe 
somebody had been murdered or a suicide or bur- 
glars or — 

171 



SHORT PLAYS 



Mrs. Stymie. Oh, youVe saved my life! If 
you hadn't come — 

Nurse [stepping forward] . You see — we — 

Dr. Blufwell. You see, we — we — 

Horse-Doctor. Yes, I see you. 

Mrs. Stymie. The leeches, you know. We're 
all afraid of them. Look out, look out there, 
you'll step on it ! We want to put them on — 

Niblick. My eye ! 

Horse-Doctor. Why, certainly. Anything to 
please the ladies. [He picks tip a leech from the 
floor in his fingers and advances with it toward 
Niblick.'] 

Niblick [jumping tip with great alacrity]. 
But not this afternoon. It's too late for a gar- 
den party now. That leech will have to do with 
just a cracker at home. 



[Curtain.] 



172 



A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS. 
(an old-fashioned party on ST. valentine's 

NIGHT. ) 

[Scene : A room at the end of a great hall- 
way in a fine old Georgian mansion. The en- 
trance is heavily curtained off and there are 
heavy hangings at the zvindow. There is an 
open fireplace with great logs burning and two 
silver candlesticks, lighted, stand on the mantel- 
piece. The furniture is Georgian mahogany 
with a rococo touch in some hits. It includes 
a spinet, a little gilt chair, a spindle-legged 
table, a large mirror in a gilt frame, and a set- 
tee. The entrance is at the center of the hack 
of the stage, the window at the left, the fire- 
place at the right, settee in front of the fire- 
place, spinet in the left corner, gilt chair near 
it in front of the window. Everything is very 
established, formal, decorative, as in the 
eighteenth century. Music is heard of flutes, 
violins, bass-viols, and other instruments that 
made tip the orchestra of that day. A very 
pretty girl enters in ball-gown of the eighteenth 
century, and with her a young man. The girl 
is fair and flushed, with blue eyes, and has 
charm and latent vivacity. She is dressed in 
corn-color and white satin with trimfnings of 
lace and pearls, has powdered hair, high-heeled 
173 



SHORT PLAYS 



white satin slippers with buckles, and a pink 
rose in her hair. The young man is good-look- 
ing, blond with dark eyes and a certain smooth- 
ness that indicates he will be fatter when the 
years are added. He wears a powdered wig, 
a light green satin coat, white satin waistcoat, 
old-rose knee breeches of a pale shade, silk 
stockings and buckled shoes. ^ 

Ralph. You're very good to come with me, 
I was afraid you'd not agree. 
To leave the dancing in the hall. 

Nancy. When one's invited to a ball, 
One Is expected, sure, to dance, 
Unless one meets with the mischance 
To sprain one's ankle or to fall 
Into a dreadful fainting fit! — 
I hope ril not — 

Ralph. Oh, don't do it! 

Nancy. At least I'll try not at this ball. 

[They both laugh. The music is heard.'] 

Ralph. But where they're dancing 'tis so gay 
I was afraid you'd wish to stay, 

Nancy [archly]. Perhaps I did. 

Ralph. But yet you came. 

Nancy. Why, one must always play the game. 
If you had asked instead, perchance. 
To have the pleasure of a dance, 
I would have stayed and danced with you. 
Don't you expect a maid to do 
Exactly as you ask her to ? 

Ralph. Why, yes, I do, and yet suppose 
A maid has several different beaux, 
She can't in truth content them all. 

174 



A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 

Nancy. She can, in turn, at one short ball. 
Ralph. Yes, but I'm talking now of life, 
I'm asking you to be my wife. 
Nancy [starting]. Good gracious, Ralph, 
you don't prepare 
A maid for such a sudden scare ! 

[She moves over to the spinet and sits down on 

the stool. He follows her.'] 
Ralph. Scare? Why, I thought you always 
knew 
It was the end I had in view. 

Nancy. I didn't. And yet if I did, 
You had your end so safely hid 
I wouldn't ever dare to guess 
The secret you would fain repress. 

Ralph. It was no secret and I vow — 
Nancy. You never mentioned love till now. 
[Slowly and after a slight pause.'] 
If I bethink me it doth prove 
You still have never mentioned love. 

Ralph. I thought you knew. I had my 
work, 
I'm not a flirt and not a shirk, 
One doesn't hurry into fate. 

[He draws up the little gilt chair and sits down 

in front of her.] 
Nancy. Did you not fear you might be late? 
That some one might have got before 
[Footsteps are heard approaching.] 
And entered ere you tried the door? 

[Hugh comes in through the curtains, looks 
angry and disconcerted, then cools down and 
hows most ceremoniously and low to them. 
He has a rather brown skin with color in his 

175 



SHORT PLAYS 



cheeks, and has fascinating grey-blue eyes. 
He is dressed in rather grey-blue velvet coat, 
very pale yellow satin waistcoat, lavender 
satin knee-breeches, silk stockings and 
buckled shoes.'] 

Hugh. I'm sorry, sir, your joy to spill 
But Nancy promised this quadrille 
To me. 

Nancy. Of course, I'd quite forgot. 

[^She rises and curtsies low to him.'] 
And that reminds me, have you not 
My fan? 

Hugh. Your fan? 

Nancy. Yes, I have lost 

My fan, and am quite tempest-tossed 
Concerning it, for, don't you see? 
My dearest Grandma gave it me, 
And it is quite the handsomest, 
Oh, yes, and best and loveliest — 

Hugh. Both fan and Grandmama I know. 
And we had all much better go, 
If it's not found, and quickly hide 
Our heads beneath the river's tide. 

Ralph. Oh, may I be of any use? 
My ignorance is my excuse — 
You didn't tell me of your — 

Nancy [reproach f idly]. Well, 
You didn't give me time to tell. 
You see now that I'm sore distraught 

[In the most appealing and adorable voice.] 
And if you had a little thought 
For me, you'd both go hunt my fan ! 

Hugh. What man can do, then, shall do man ! 

[He seems about to go, then turns back and 
176 



A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 

confronts he7\ She is standing between the 
two men, Hugh on her right, Ralph on her 
left.] 
Hugh. But, prithee, how will you reward 
The one who finds ? 

Nancy. With my regard. 

With gratitude and fair good will ! 

Hugh. With something else? The last 

quadrille? 
[There is a momenfs silence, all three half 
smiling, the two men on either side of the 
girl regarding her with keenest interest,] 
Nancy. Why, yes, I promise last to dance 
To-night with him who has the chance 
To find my fan. Now, au revoir, 
Be guided by some lucky star! 

[She sits down again on the stool before the 

spinet.] 
Ralph [turning hastily to go and bowing low 
to Nancy as he is about to pass through the 
curtains]. 
Don't fret, for we will find the fan. 

Hugh [amused and mocking]. 
I almost think you are the man ! 
Then go and hunt — I'll take the bird 
That's in the bush. For hope deferred 
Did ever make me sick. So here 
I'll stay with Nan. It would be queer 
For us to leave her quite alone — 
This is my time, the only one 
Perhaps I'll have. Give you good luck! 
I like you, Ralph, I like your pluck. 

[Hugh sits down on the little gilt chair and 
there is nothing left for Ralph to do but go. 
177 



SHORT PLAYS 



He smiles hopefully and reassuringly at 
Nancy. ~\ 
Ralph. Honor's the same in love and war, 
I'll bring the fan, then au revoir! 

[Ralph bows himself out through the curtains. 
Nancy rises and goes over to the other side 
of the room. She seems disturbed and to 
try to evade Hugh, who follows watching 
her. He goes to the settee and stands be- 
hind it, snaking a gesture of offering her a 
seat. She stands looking into the fire.'] 
Hugh. Won't you be seated, fair Nanette? 
Nancy. My name is Nancy. 
Hugh. But Nanette 

Is used for rhyming with coquette. 

Nancy. Perhaps you are. the one to know, 
They say you're such a heartless beau. 

Hugh. I have been ever since I met 
The pretty maid I call Nanette. 
She'll neither give me back my heart, 
Nor give me hers — such is her art 
Of coquetry. Won't you sit down? 

[Nancy sits down on one end of the settee 
farthest from where he stands with his hand 
resting on the back of it.] 
Hugh. You have on such a lovely gown, 
It doth become you e'en as gold [gallantly] 
Sets off the pearl it doth enfold. 

Nancy. It seems you haven't lost your wit 
[smiling] , 
Nor tongue to help make use of it. 

Hugh. You think my wit's a thing apart 
From my poor, luckless, lackless heart? 



178 



A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 

[He covies round to the front of the settee and 

sits down on it as far as possible from her. 

Then he leans over and plays with the lace 

trimming on her sleeve.'] 

Hugh. You think a man won't lose his mind 

Because he loves a maid unkind? 

Nancy. I didn't quite say that — and yet — 
[As if meditating something to prove her point 
and try him.] 
Why don't you make a chansonnette ? 

Hugh. For dear Nanette? The fair co- 
quette ? 
I'll take your dare — some kind of rhyme 
I'll formulate, while you mark time. 

[They are both silent a few moments^ she 
watching him zvith a quizzical smile, he with 
brows knitted, looking hard at the floor.] 

Hugh. She lost her fan, did sweet Nanette, 
It wasn't quite within her plan, 
For while she played at the coquette, 
She lost her fan. 

Mayhap 'twas left in her sedan, 

Or maybe in the minuet 

'Twas stolen by some naughty man. 

Just where it is I may not bet, 
But nothing's plainer to me than 
While trying some one's heart to net 
She lost her fan. 

Nancy. It seems you haven't lost your head! 
Hugh. I'd rather have a heart instead. 
179 



SHORT PLAYS 



Nancy. You wouldn't be so nice, so gay. 

Hugh. I'd go contented on my way 
Nor hang about and linger so 
To hear a maiden's " Yes " or " No." 
You know It Is the day divine 
That's sacred to St. Valentine, 
The day a lover must confess. 
The day a maiden should say " Yes," 
The day the little birds all mate 
And bow to Love and nod to Fate. 

Nancy [hastily interrupting him~\. 
And yet the day of all the year 
Is likeliest to be most drear. 
I'm sure the robins have chilblains 
Upon their little toes. The lanes 
Are bleak and covered o'er with snow, 
And listen — how the east winds blow! 
Perchance there'll be a dreadful storm. 

Hugh [leaning to her~\ 
So much the more should hearts keep warm. 
Ah, dearest, let me hear you say 
The word I long for day by day. 
The little word for which I wait! 

Nancy [nervously']. It must be getting very 
late! 
You haven't tried to find my fan. 

Hugh. Why should I, since Ralph is the 
man? 

Nancy. He Isn't. And the last quadrille 
Is yours. If you the terms fulfil. 

Hugh. If I produce the fan, you'll give 
The dance to me — now, as I live. 
If with the dance your heart's thrown In, 
I'll find the fan — I'll die or win ! 

i8o 



A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 

Nancy. You're willing thus to trust to fate? 
\_Footsteps are heard coming down the hall.^ 
Hugh [entreatingly]. Say "Yes" before It 
is too late ! 
You'll give your heart with the last dance? 

[Nancy is very nervous and excited. She 
looks at Hugh with great earnestness and 
speaks almost in a whisper. '\ 
Nancy. Yes! Fate forfend me from mis- 
chance ! 
[Enter Ralph through the curtains.'] 
Hugh. Ah, Ralph, you wear a cheerful smile. 
You've found it? 

Ralph. No, Fll not beguile 

You [speaking to Nancy] into hopes, for every- 
where 
I've searched with diligence and care. 

[Nancy sighs and smiles relief. The situation 
is beginning to assume a serious aspect to 
her.] 
Nancy. It surely Isn't right at all 
To spoil the pleasure of this ball 
For you, and we'll abandon now 
Search for the fan. 

Hugh. Oh, no, I vow! 

I'm to myself in honor bound! 
That fan this evening shall be found. 

Nancy. Oh, pray, what difference does it 
make. 
Just for to-night? 

Hugh. There is at stake 

Something I care for. 

Ralph. On the stair 

I hunted — underneath each chair. 

i8i 



SHORT PLAYS 



I'm very sorry, but I fear 

'Tis lost — and yet perhaps 'tis here! 

\_He says this as if with sudden thought a7id as 
if with inspiration goes to the mantelpiece, 
takes one of the tall candlesticks from it, and 
proceeds to walk about the room looking 
carefully on the floor for the fan.^ 
Nancy [rather nervously to Hugh]. 
Why don't you take the other one? 

[Hugh goes to the mantelpiece and takes there- 
from the other tall lighted candlestick and 
goes about the room as Ralph does, hunting 
on the floor and under the curtains and furni- 
ture for the fan.] 
Nancy [her nervousness increasing, as she 
watches first one and then the other and 
finally gets up and follows first one and then 
the other]. 
Oh, please don't bother any more, 
I'm sure It Isn't on the floor. 
Give up the search, I beg of you! 

Hugh. " Give up " was never yet my cue. 
Ralph. To give up now I could not bear. 
Hugh. But this I'll do: It Is not fair 
For me to stay, I'll take my turn. 
And If your candle brightly burn [to Ralph] 
While I'm away, e'en though I bring 
The fan to win the promising [to Nancy] 
If Nancy wishes to unsay 
Her promise, she shall have her way. 

[The two men stand on either side of the girl 
and hold up their candles to light her and 
as if to pledge her. Hugh bows, then zvalks 



182 



A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 

across in front of her and on out through 
the curtains.^ 
Ralph. He goeth forth upon his quest 
And whether in earnest or in jest 
No man can say. 

\^He turns from looking after Hugh to Nancy, 
and gestures to her to be seated upon the 
settee.^ 
Ralph. Will you not sit? 

\_She sits down on the settee.'] 
The last quadrille — he may have it. 
I care not much. 

Nancy. Oh, but you should! 

I mean I almost think you would 
If you but knew. 'Tis very meet 
For you to know. Quite indiscreet 
For me to tell. Oh, can't you guess? 
Ralph. I only want you to say " Yes." 
\_He goes to the mantelpiece and places the 
candlestick upon it.] 
'Tis foolish, sure, to break a lance 
Just for the trifle of a dance. 

[He comes hack and takes the little gilt chair, 
placing it in front of her and sits down.] 
Now, Nancy, give me your consent. 
You must have known 'twas my intent 
To ask you for my wife some day. 
I never dreamed you'd say me nay, 
Or even that you'd hesitate. 

Nancy. You left a great deal, sir, to fate. 
Don't lovers think they have to woo? 

Ralph. They're fools, I'd too much else to 
do. 
But now the time is ripe, dear Nan. 

183 



SHORT PLAYS 



Nancy. YouM better, then, go hunt my fan. 
Ralph. That's unimportant — 
Nancy. Nay, not so ! [anxiously^ 

Indeed, you really ought to go. 

Ralph. Upon that article of dress, 
Your fan, you lay too much of stress. 

Nancy. Since you'll not guess, I'm forced to 
tell 
I've promised him my heart as well 
Who brings my fan. 

Ralph. By Jove, I see ! 

But, Nancy, this is trickery. 

\_He gets up hastily at the last speech and now 
moves toward the door. He has taken up 
the candlestick.'] 

'TIs foolishness ! 
Nancy. We'll play the game 

And have no one but fate to blame. 

Ralph [stopping at the door and looking 
greatly disturbed]. 
Where do you think you could have left 
The fan? Where shall I hunt? A theft 
You guess it was? 

Nancy. I can not say 

And should not If I could — good day! 

\_Ralph rushes toward the door and runs 
straight into Hugh, who is coming through 
the curtains.] 
Ralph. You've got the fan? [Hurriedly 

and anxiously.] 
Hugh. One doesn't get 

What he already has. Nanette, 
I left you in fantastic mood — 

184 



A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 

I've come back and would fain be good. 

Ralph seemed just now so keen to go 

About his business — leave you so — \_noncha- 
lantly^ 

I wouldn't have him stay for me. 

\_Hugh puts his candle on the mantelpiece. 
Ralph does not budge, hut looks angrily at 
Hugh.] 
Hugh. Oh, very well, I quite agree 

To have him witness what I tell. 

[He addresses himself always to Nancy, ig- 
noring Ralph.] 

'Twas when you left the chair it fell [producing 
the fan] 

So noiselessly you did not hear. 

I picked It up because 'twas dear 

To me, and I meant not to give 

It back, but keep it while I live. 

Then came the chance to tease you, for [ges- 
turing toward Ralph] 

'TIs said, all's fair in love and war. 

All is not fair and honor's due, 

So I give back the fan to you. 

It is to you that I confess 

I couldn't risk your happiness. 

Ralph. To choose is now within your will, 

May I not have the last quadrille? 

Nancy. You may, dear Ralph, I'll speak you 
fair. 

If Hugh will kindly seek my chair 

And walk beside it home with me 

To see my Grandma, probably 

She'd like to-night to wish us joy. 

185 



SHORT PLAYS 



\_She prettily extends her hand to Hugh, smil- 
ing. Ralph takes in the situation a little 
slowly and sullenly.^ 
Ralph. I beg your pardon — I'll annoy 
You no further. 

\_He looks a little helplessly at the candle as 
he turns to go. Hugh steps forward and 
takes it from him. Ralph departs through 
the curtains. Hugh blows out the candle 
and places it on the mantelpiece — his own 
is still burning — then comes to Nancy.'] 
Hugh. Are you quite 

Content, sweetheart, that this Is right? 
Nancy. I was so very much afraid 
It wouldn't end this way! A maid 
Can't see a man's heart until he 
Makes clear his love with honesty. 

Hugh. You didn't think that I was true? 
Nancy. You hadn't proved It yet, had you? 
Until you did, I had to play 
The game — I wanted you alway. 

Hugh. But, dearest, truly will you now 
Believe I'll keep my lover's vow? 

Nancy. Ah, can't you see I give, dear Hugh, 
My fan [extending it to himl 

And hand [letting her hand rest in his] 

And heart [laying her head upon 
his breast] 
To you? 
[The music of the old-fashioned orchestra is 
heard from the halL Curtain.] 



1 86 



A MODERN MASQUE. 

CHARACTERS AS THEY APPEAR. 

George Bernard Shaw. 

Joseph Addison. 

The Spirit of Poetry. 

The Spirit of Drama. 

Shakespeare. 

The Spirit of Spring or of Youth. 

The Spirit of Woman. 

[Scene: An open green of thick young 
grass, surrounded to make an irregular circle 
by bushes, some of them in flower, sweet syr- 
inga, fringe, and others, A hill rises in the 
background covered with thick young grass 
which waves in the wind. On the hill are also 
bushes, hawthorns in white flower, some bloom- 
ing fruit trees, and a great honey-locust still 
in blossom, its petals falling and making snozv 
upon the green grass beneath. In the dis- 
tance is a woodland. Joseph Addison and G. 
B. Shaw appear on either side of the green, 
stop and gaze upon each other with rather hos- 
tile and ^ contemptuous curiosity. Addison is 
dressed in a very gay eighteenth century cos- 
tume ^ of green velvet with brocaded waistcoat, 
prodigious, powdered wig, silk stockings, and 
buckled shoes. Shaw wears a gray flannel 
shirt, soft flowing Windsor tie, Norfolk jacket, 
187 



SHORT PLAYS 



knickerbockers y soft slouch hat, and heavy 
tramping Oxfords. He carries a walking stick 
and is rather intrusive with his usual plentiful 
supply of red whiskers,'] 

Addison [aside]. 

Whom have we here in such uncouth attire ? 
A bearded lackey in his master's hire? 
What breach of taste — no wig upon his 

head 
But fluent hair about his mouth instead! 

Shaw. Good heavens, man, don't you know 
better than to use an aside? They are alto- 
gether out of date. The ancient fools and fac- 
totems of the stage like Shakespeare and Addison 
used asides but I have changed all that. I am 
preacher, reformer, prophet. I have taught the 
public to expect life in the drama and not senti- 
mentality and artificiality. 

Addison [aside]. 

Astounding circumstance ! Who can the 

fellow be 
To speak of drama, yet not recognize me ! 

Shaw. There you go again with another 
aside when I have just said they are not per- 
missible. You are as bull-headed as one of the 
Georges or an Englishman. 

Addison [advancing with courtly manners, but 
glaring] . 

Good fellow, though your manners be 
uncouth, 

i88 



A MODERN MASQUE 



You speak of drama, know you then the 

truth : 
I, John Addison, before you stand, 
Your purpose and your name I would 

demand. 

Shaw. How dellciously humorous ! But now 
you see how I do it. I say right out to 
your face what I think — that is the way I al- 
ways treat the public, especially if I think they are 
too stupid to understand. 
Addison. 

The advantage of me still, my man, you 

claim, 
I, Joseph Addison, know not your name. 

Shaw. Well, it would be almost egotistical 
In me to expect you to. To expect a man who 
died a century before I was born to know me, 
although my whiskers are pretty familiar in most 
parts of London. I am George Bernard Shaw, 
critic, essayist, satirist, socialist, dramatist, genius. 
It Is my business to shatter ideals and wittily 
block out to th-e world formulae for unpleasant 
truths. My foster child, Arnold Bennett, has 
been rather usurping my place lately and I am 
thinking of killing him with one of my stinging 
satirical remarks. But I haven't altogether de- 
cided yet, for he doesn't bother me much in my 
particular sphere. I am still the foremost critic 
and dramatist of the world. 

Addison [politely unctuous^. 

A critic and a dramatist combined I see ! 
Indeed 'tis fairly like the eighteenth cen- 
tury. 

189 



SHORT PLAYS 



Shaw [smiling]. A little — with a vast im- 
provement. You fellows of the eighteenth cen- 
tury had some ideas of art — I give you full 
credit for that. Any one of you had more knowl- 
edge of art than that idiot in craftsmanship, that 
gigantic blunderer, that colossal superstition, 
Shakespeare. Don't misunderstand me — I use 
the term superstition in connection with Shake- 
speare to mean not at all that he did not exist or 
that he did not write his own plays. 

Addison [sviilhi^ super cUiously~\. 

Truly of that there could not be a doubt ! 
A stable boy, manners and wit without! 
Also, a man hath said what he hath said. 
Produced his products from his own poor 
head. 

Shaw. You are altogether lucid, Joseph. 
I quite agree with you. \_Poetry and Drama go 
up the hill together and wander about slowly 
among the trees and hushes. They are both 
dressed in flozving garments of Greek style , 
Poetry in soft blue, Drama in old rose. Drama 
carries a flozvering branch of hawthorn.} Shake- 
speare's greatness is the superstition I refer to. 
Every one knows that I think my plays are in- 
finitely better than Shakespeare's and what I 
think every one will have to think sooner or 
later. Oh, Shakespeare wrote his own plays. 
Bacon was too scientific and mental to produce 
such atrocious rot and gush. Some time ago I 
remarked that I wanted to dig up Shakespeare's 
bones and string them up to shoot at for his bad 
art. But now I realize that isn't enough. I 

190 



A MODERN MASQUE 



want to exterminate him completely. But he Is 
elusive. His Influence turns up in the most un- 
expected places. But I was told on very good 
authority, that of J. M. Barrle, that I would be 
most apt to find him In fairyland — especially 
at this time of the year. So I have come to fairy- 
land — here — to hunt him down. 

[Poetry and Drama slowly wander down the 
hill on one side. Shakespeare and Spring 
emerge from behind the hushes on the other 
side of the green and go up the hill a little 
way. They are not together. Shakespeare 
is in the conventional Shakespearean coS' 
tume of black velvet. Spring is in light 
green hose, and a little short coat, no shoes, 
honeysuckle in his hair and a long chain of 
wild sweet clover hanging from one shoul- 
der down to the other side.^ 
Addison. 

We scorn allusions to the land of fairy, 
we, 

The social satirists of the eighteenth cen- 
tury, ^ 

Yet I to fairyland have come, like you, 

To find out Shakespeare and to thrust him 
through. 

Shaw [advancing, and the two shake hands 
like two conspirators']. Good for you, Joseph! 
I didn't know you had so much blood in you. 
[Shakespeare has appeared quietly on one side 

of the green.'] 
Shakespeare [aside]. ''So much blood as 
would clog the foot of a flea.'* 

191 



SHORT PLAYS 



Shaw. I don't take any more stock in fairy- 
land than you do. It is a crude and at the same 
time an artificial society, a nationality devoid of 
science or ethics or social uplift and lit only for 
those sucking-doves of idiots, such as Willie 
Yeats and the other new-thought Irishmen, who 
are not Irishmen at all, by the way — I am the 
only Irishman — but just ordinary freaks that 
might occur in Russia or Borneo and as a matter 
of fact — [the spirits of Poetry and Drama, 
who have been wandering about among the 
trees, now come quietly down to the green on 
the other side from Shakespeare while Shaw 
makes this speech.^ 

Poetry. There is Bernard Shaw talking as 
usual. [To Drama.'] 

Shaw [continuing]. — and as a matter of 
fact have occurred in France and Germany and 
England at intervals throughout the history of 
the world, as in the case of Shakespeare and 
Shelley — 

Poetry [coming forward]. Shelley? What 
have you to say of Shelley? 

Shaw. Only that he was insane and an an- 
archist. His was a mind gone wrong. I some- 
times think if he had lived in my day I might 
have converted him and made something out of 
him, that is to say, made a socialist out of him. 
But it would be almost egotistical in me to ex- 
pect to have an influence over a man who died 
before I was born — approximately. But, my 
dear madam, who are you? I think I never met 
you. 

Poetry. You are quite right. You do not 
192 



A MODERN MASQUE 



know me and I think you will never know me. I 
am the spirit of Poetry. 

Shaw. Quite so. I permit myself to be 
blind to the unessentials. You are a creature of 
no particular value in the ethical or scientific or 
social economy. 

Addison. 

Indeed, my friend, you do egregious wrong, 
Oh, do not scorn, but praise immortal song ! 
I bow before the bright celestial Muse, 
May she with light my poor attempts in- 
fuse! 
May she with inspiration touch my rhyme, 
And all my lines march to her feet sublime ! 

\_Spring has been wandering about on the hill- 
side, playing with flowers and weaving 
chains of them, and now comes down to the 
green.'\ 

Poetry. It all depends upon thy sincerity, 
dear worshiper. One doubts a little of thee. 
My poets no longer harass their souls for the 
sake of that corset called rhyme. There was 
Walt Whitman, for instance, who did not know 
rhyme from a turkey buzzard — yet — {rever- 
ently^ — yet one touches the memory of his soul 
as one would touch a wind-flower. 

Spring. A wind-flower? One of my flow- 
ers? You were talking of one of my flowers, 
Poetry? 

Poetry. Yes, Spring, one of your flowers 
and one of your people. \To Shaw and Addi- 
son.'] This little person is the spirit of Spring 
or of Youth, one of my dear friends. 

193 



SHORT PLAYS 



Shaw. It would be almost egotistical in me 
to expect to remember Youth since I am so es- 
sentially middle-aged, yet I can readily see that 
youth may exist in fairyland. But who is this 
other gentleman? He looks rather attractive in 
spite of his silly clothing. Is he — to put it in the 
English sense — one of your followers? [To 
Poetry.] 

Poetry. I have told you that I am Poetry. 
This is another friend of mine. He sometimes 
goes about by himself but he is always more 
splendid when I am with him. We are always 
together in the house of Shakespeare or of 
Maeterlinck or of Rostand. He is the spirit of 
Drama. 

Shaw [with effusion, making for Drama, who 
stands hack from him coldly.'] Ah, my dear fel- 
low, I am your friend and patron, the best ex- 
ponent of you on the stage to-day. 

Drama [with dignity]. I do not know you. 

Shaw. Why, my dear boy, I am G. B. Shaw, 
I am your patron saint! 

Drama. You might be the devil by the look 
of you. Your make-up would do for Mephis- 
topheles in " Faust," yet — oh, pshaw, I [smiling] 
do not know you. I have not the pleasure of 
your acquaintance. 

Shaw. But, my dear fellow, don't you re- 
member? I criticized plays for years and now 
I write them. 

Drama. That proves you are no dramatist. 
A budding genius writes plays first and criticizes 
them afterwards. 

Shaw. Geniuses don't bud nowadays. They 
194 



A MODERN MASQUE 



are scientifically developed by vegetarian nourish- 
ment — starting with the kindergarten, or, I may 
say, with pre-natal influence. 

Drama [puzzled]. He doesn't sound like 
Sophocles or Moliere or even Hauptmann or 
D'Annunzio or Maeterlinck. 

Poetry. Mr. Shaw is British, you know. 

Drama. But there was my Shakespeare — he 
was British. 

Poetry. The superman of British art. 

Shaw {staggering back]. Superman! Good 
heavens, merciful powers 1 ^ They^ apply my own 
dear designation to that driveling idiot I 

[Drama and Poetry support him.] 

Shakespeare. " That was the most unkind- 
est cut of all." 

Shaw. Thanks, Tm all right. Any one who 
in knee breeches and gray flannel shirt has 
trundled his art through the streets of London 
as I have done has learned to stand on his own 
two legs. But, what puzzles me. Drama, is what 
you are doing in fairyland? 

Spring [dancing down from behind and 
around among them on the green]. 

All roads go to fairyland, 
Every wise man's son doth know, 
Joy and Beauty hand-in-hand 
Lead the way to fairyland. 
Dancing, singing as they go. 

[He dances down the center among them, then 

vanishes into the background.] 
Drama. I fear, Mr. Shaw, you are nierely a 
phase of the moment. You do not realize that 

195 



SHORT PLAYS 



I am cosmopolitan, that I am of time and of 
eternity. I have abodes everywhere — even a 
castle in Spain — like many another poor soul. 
One of my chiefest estates is in fairyland, and I 
arn never quite happy unless I carry a spray from 
fairyland with me. We call that spray Fantasy. 

Poetry. The question is, what are you do- 
ing in fairyland, Mr. Shaw? It is a very strange 
place for you to be in and very strange that here 
in fairyland you should come for the first time 
face to face with the spirit of Drama. Though 
you are not the first one who has had to come to 
dreamland to meet him. 

Shaw. Why, I will be perfectly frank with 
you. I was never one to hide my talents or my 
opinions under a bushel. I am after Shake- 
speare. 

Drama. You are after Shakespeare — a long 
way after. 

Shaw. He was so bungling a fool in his art, 
his craftsmanship was so imperfect, he didn't 
know what construction meant in the drama, and 
I am sick of his false pretensions and position and 
all the adulation paid him, so I am going to ex- 
terminate him. I and my old friend here, 
Joseph. Joseph, where are you? 

\_Addison has gone to sleep on a log, and the 
spirit of Woman has entered unobserved 
during Shaw's speech.^ 

Woman. You mean Joseph Kipling, I sup- 
pose. That unfortunate fellow who was once 
Rudyard Kipling, the gifted boy, the very darling 
of the gods. But his taste for cynicism and sen- 
sationalism have ruined him. He has degen- 

196 



A MODERN MASQUE 



erated Into a common and unpleasant man-scold 
in the ugliest of ill-fitting clothing and the most 
unsanitary of wire-haired mustaches. So we call 
him no longer Rudyard but Joseph — it seems to 
suit him better. 

Shaw. No, I don't mean Kipling. He has 
all he can do fixing women in their right place 
and earning enough money for keeping a wife 
to bear him children. He is busy with the female 
of the species. I mean Addison. Where are 
you, Joseph? You were here a moment ago. 

Addison [w>ho has been sitting asleep on the 
log, now jumps to his feet, winking fast to get 
awake,'\ 

A bloody business now we have on hand, 
Drenching with gore the sod of fairyland! 
Ladles, I pray you, flee from hence afar. 
Where anguished groans may not your 
spirits jar! 

Woman [running forward} . Oh, do not shed 
blood, I beseech you ! 

Poetry. Oh, do no harm to Shakespeare, I 
entreat you ! 

Shaw [patronizingly]. Now, my dears, don't 
make an unpleasant scene. We are quite deter- 
mined to kill him. [To Woman.'] You are the 
spirit of Woman, I perceive, even though you 
are In different clothing from that I usually dress 
you In, I know you too well to be fooled by mere 
outward trappings. Now, run away, dears, like 
good women, and weep privately In some out-of- 
the-way place where your sobs will not be heard. 
We dislike feminine wailing. And we have 

197 



SHORT PLAYS 



man's business to attend to. Joseph, where are 
you? Where do you suppose Shakespeare Is? 

Woman. Oh, where is he that we warn him? 

Poetry. Oh, where Is he that we may protect 
him? 

Shakespeare [advancing with a courtly bow 
to Poetry~\, I am here, dear madonna [bowing 
in the same courtly way to Shaw^. I am here, 
good hangman. I am among you as the artist 
is always among you. I am at the mercy of the 
dilettante [bowing to Addison^ and of the medi- 
ocre [bowing to Shaw^ as the genius is always at 
their mercy. And I am defenseless as the artist 
is always defenseless. 

[Poetry and PFofuan quickly hurry to Shake- 
speare and stand in front of him, protect- 
in gly.~\ 

Poetry [to Shakespeare]. They dare not 
touch you, my lord. 

Shakespeare. They dare touch anything, 
dear madonna. " Fools rush in where angels 
fear to tread." Nothing in this world Is safe 
from the dilettante and the mediocre and, thou 
wilt add, from the vulgar and the over-zealous 
neophyte. With greasy thumb they rub the 
bloom from the blue grape, and with sickening 
breath they wither the blue violet. They go 
about the earth like deadly flies destroying love- 
liness. There is nothing left to the lover of 
beauty but his own soul and the blue of heaven. 

Shaw. Talking sentimental gush, as usual. 
Come, Joseph, we must do for him. Ladies, 
please stand aside. 

198 



A MODERN MASQUE 



\_Addison unsheathes his sword and Shaw 
brandishes his walking stick. JVoinan and 
Poetry gather closer round Shakespeare and 
shield him.^ 
Poetry. Oh, my lord, will you not flee? 
Woman [to Addison and Shaw]. You dare 
not touch him till you have first made way with 
me. 

Shaw. Well, you may have observed that we 
are rather doing that. 
Addison [grandiosely]. 

Give over dreams and feminine inanity, 
Make way for men and true poetic sanity ! 

Drama. I am cosmopolitan, impartial, un- 
prejudiced, but when a conflict comes I must stand 
lipon the right side. I beg you not to be too 
foolishly militant, rude, ungenerous, and — most 
of all — short-sighted, gentlemen, against a 
genius so beautiful, so wonderful. You will see 
the day when you will rue it. 

Shaw. Pooh, pooh, the fight is on. [Hold- 
ing tip his walking stick.] This is my strong 
weapon, satire. It is stronger than Excalibur or 
the sword of Siegfried — strong, hard, and ma- 
terial. With it I fight and slay all silly prettiness, 
untruths, and dreams. 

Woman. Ah, who are you, to know what 
now is truth? 

[Shaw makes a lunge, follozved by Addison. 
Poetry and Woman with Drama between 
them and a little in front of them, gather to- 
gether, stand silently before Shakespeare and 
199 



SHORT PLAYS 



begin to wave filmy veils tozvard Shaw and 
Addison. The latter halt, step back, and 
stand as if transfixed.^ 
Shaw \^low and mumbling^. What are they 
doing, Joseph? Are they doing the same thing 
to you? I feel sleepy. They are doing some- 
thing. 

Addison. They do what they have done these 
hundred years, 
An incantation worthy your worst fears. 

Shaw. Incantation? Nonsense. I don't be- 
lieve in incantations. But they are doing some- 
thing. Have they done this to you for a hun- 
dred years? I feel — it would be almost ego- 
tistical in me — to remember — a hundred years. 
Addison. 

Time and oblivion are the subtle wrong 
These beings use upon my plays and song. 
The venom worketh with the slow sad hour, 
Against their poisonous charms we have 
no power. 

Shaw. Have they done it to you for a hun- 
dred years, Joseph? No — no wonder your 
brain is such a dusty old miller. But I think — 
they — will not do it to me for so long. I — I 
am too sane — too brilliant — too — I shall have 
to use my stick to support myself with. I am so 
ridiculously sleepy. 

[Shakespeare stands quietly behind them, 
watching. Spring, who has been in the back- 
ground all the while, is now waving a wreath 
of flowers.'] 

200 



A MODERN MASQUE 



Poetry. 

We wave you the spell of the years, 

Forgetfulness cruel and sure, 

We wave it in sorrow and tears 

To souls unfit to endure. 

Forgetfulness subtle and sure 

Is our weapon that blights you and sears, 

The little and mean and impure 

Are lost in the spell of the years. 

\_Addison and Shaw drop their weapons and 
are as if hypnotized.'] 

Shaw. Jo, Josie, this is no place for us. 
We'd better go back to London and the camp of 
the socialists. I'd like a plate of nice boiled rice 
or vegetable marrow or some other good vege- 
tarian dish to give me strength. These people 
have an atmosphere that doesn't agree with my 
health. 

Addison. 

They have a power known not to you 

nor me, 
'TIs called the gift of immortality. 

\_They turn and slowly depart as if nearly 
asleep, Shaw's arm around Addison's shoul- 
der, Addison supporting Shaw.] 
Drama. Farewell to you who are ephemeral. 
Woman. Though you two gentlemen may 
reside in London for a season, you must know 
that you are not bound eternally for the shores 
of Thames, but very eternally for the shores of 
Lethe. 

201 



SHORT PLAYS 



Poetry. 

The earth-soul of the good and the gay 
Recks naught of the new nor the old, 
But proffers his garlands of bay 
To the heart and the genius of gold. 

[Addison and Shaw are gone and the others 
turn now to Shakespeare.^ 

Woman. You are saved, my beloved lover. 

Drama. You are saved once again, my be- 
loved dramatist. 

Poetry. You are saved, my lord and beloved 
poet. 

Spring. You are saved, my beloved big 
friend. But weren't you awfully w^orried and 
frightened? I was. I didn't know what they 
might do to you. Didn't you want to fight them, 
too? I hoped you would fight them. 

Shakespeare [smiling']. The lusty blood in 
springtime hopes ever for a pretty fight. But 
thou shouldst read thy Bible, sweet youth. It 
giveth much direction and much consolation. It 
saith, " Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the 
Lord." And moreover, it counsels me and thee 
to " Fret not thyself because of evil-doers." 

Spring. Oh, but I did want you to fight 
even if it was two to one and they had such fear- 
some weapons, and you none at all. 

Shakespeare. The world hath fearsome 
weapons ever and it is ever two against one when 
a genius hath the temerity to pit himself against 
the world. The genius must die, yet will he live. 
And he who is scorned by the many to-day will 
be worshiped by the many to-morrow. 

202 



A MODERN MASQUE 



Woman. I must leave you now. I must go 
back to the world. I am needed. 

Spring. Don't you ever stop to play and 
have some fun? Don't you ever have any fun, 
Woman? 

Woman. Oh, yes, I stop to play and have 
fun, though I didn't while I was Victorian. And, 
what is pleasantest, I am learning to get fun out 
of all sorts of work. I must go back to the world 
now. I am very much needed there. I have to 
work for suffrage in New York. 

Drama. I, too, must go. They are in need 
of me on Broadway as a naked man is in need 
of a shirt. I may be able soon to inspire some 
noble-hearted youth to fight for me against their 
astute and self-satisfied grossness. 

Poetry. I, too, must go. I am needed more 
than any of you. I am needed to make your 
work sweeter and more effective. People think 
I belong exclusively to fairyland, but I am in 
everything and I am needed everywhere, though 
they do not know it, poor souls, and few of them 
ever see me. 

l^They start away slowly, Woman first, then 
Drama, and last Poetry.^ 

Poetry \^tiirning back]. When our beloved 
has need of us, we come. For, though opinion 
IS fleeting, art is long — long and beautiful, 
tenacious and dominant, as hope is and as beauty 
Itself is. 

Shakespeare. Auf wiedersehen. 

Poetry. To the world, where we are needed. 

[They go, leaving Shakespeare and Spring 
waving them good-hy.'\ 
203 



SHORT PLAYS 



Spring. Do you talk German, Shakespeare? 

Shakespeare. I speak in many languages, 
to many tongues haye been translated. Thou 
knowest the German folk have pictured me most 
graciously. They understand me as well, nay 
sometimes better, than have mine own people. 
Yet I do use aiif wiedersehen now only because 
there is in English no expression for &o brief a 
parting. 

Spring. 

You meet your people here and there, 

Oh, here and there. 
Poetry, Drama, Woman fair, 

Yes, Woman fair. 

Philosophy and Truth a-nd Art, 

Oh, Truth and Art, 
Aiif wiedersehen, you only part 

To meet again. 

Shakespeare. But thou, my little Youth and 
spirit of Spring, 
Art with me ever as the blue of heaven. 
For artists keep their hearts forever young. 
And poets keep their love of little things. 
Of lambs and brooks and robins in the grass. 
Of tiny new-born leaves all fair and frail. 
Of little hands and chuckHng baby laughs. 
Of little lost white clouds athwart the blue, 
Of smallest song of very smallest bird. 
And softest wind among the little leaves. 
Of wind-flowers frail and wee blue violets. 
In little dells of proper fairy size. 
Of all the dearest things in this dear world. 

204 



A MODERN MASQUE 



Spring. 

But so many poor people forget 
The spirit of joy and of spring, 
And still are despondent and fret 
When redbirds and brown thrashers sing. 

Shakespeare. When weakness which is oft 
a heavier weight 
Than conscious sin upon the soul of man, 
When selfishness and lethargy and lack 
Of generous attitude towards others' weal, 
When hardened middle-age and pedant self 
And all the concrete stubborn cruelties 
That come not from hot blood but cold experi- 
ence, 
Turning life's currents Into frozen streams. 
When most these hard unprofitable things 
Do weigh upon my spirit and do sear 
The joy of life within, then most I think 
Of thee and all thy fair young loveliness. 
" When daisies pied and violets blue 
And lady-smocks all silver white, 
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue 
Do paint the meadows with delight,'* 
I lift mine eyes unto the blue of heaven 
In silent gratitude for spring, for youth. 
When coldness In the winter of the year 
Or hardness In the winter of the soul 
Do vex me most, then Is It time for thee. 

Spring. 

Sing a song of bluebirds, 
Spring Is coming by. 
Sing a song of robins. 
Blue is In the sky, 
205 



SHORT PLAYS 



Sing a song of blossoms, 
Fragrance in the air, 
Sing a song of fairyland, 
Joyance everywhere. 

Shakespeare. Therefore, since thou art still 
my little friend, 
Little brother and page, it seemeth me, 
Attendant still upon us poets ever, 
Belonging to us down through all the years, 
I give thee now, our very dearest treasure, 
Spirit of Spring, oh, joyous spirit of Youth, 
I give thee to the world, and so, farewell. 

[Shakespeare presents Youth to the world or 
the audience and then silently withdraws 
into the background of shrubbery at the 
other side of the green from where the 
other spirits have gone — on the same side 
from which he came. Youth extends his 
arms to the world and sings :^ 
Youth or Spring. 

Violets growing few, 
Cometh the rose, 
Daylight is going by. 
Soon will the twilight sky 
Half-moon disclose 
Still in the fairest blue 
Over the dreaming dew. 
Beauty forever nigh, 
I come to you ! 

\^He comes out among them.^ 



206 



THE FUTURISTS. 
(an early woman's club meeting. y 

Mrs. James White, hostess, nouveau riche, 

but somewhat timid. 
Mrs. J. M. Smith, if Catholic, would have been 

a Mother Superior, as Presbyterian is presi- 
dent of the Ladies^ Aid Society, 
Miss Hope Wright, the ultra modern scientist 

of the '8o's, 
Mrs. Weston-Jones, grass widow, who paints 

on china and recites. 
Miss Flora May Rogers, the leader who ilium' 

inates conventional progress. 
Mrs. Scrubbs, D. A. R. — decayed aristocracy 

rising. 
Miss Beaton, who sings. 
Mrs. Clarence Mellimore, asthete. 

With humble apologies to everybody. The D. 
A. R. lady did not exist in the early eighties, but 
she is too delightful to be omitted from such a 
gathering as this. Please let her charm, then, ex- 
cuse her inadvertence. 

[Curtains open upon Mrs. JVhite^s 1882 par- 
lor. The room has a low mantelpiece with a 
large mirror over it at the center of the back. 
In this mirror Mrs. W eston-J ones is reflected 
to the real audience when she recites. The 
207 



SHORT PLAYS 



furniture is the inartistic stuff of that inartis- 
tic Victorian period. There is a bass-rocker, 
if possible, several screens covered with Japa- 
nese fans, Japanese paper umbrellas above the 
pictures, ^^ throws '^ everywhere, ribbons tied in 
great bows to chairs and vases, a gilded 
rolling pin hanging from the wall, a large 
shovel gilded and with a snow scene covered 
with diamond dust painted on it, ugly bric-a- 
brac, furniture upholstered in rep and hair- 
cloth. The room is cluttered and disconcert- 
ing. JVhen the ladies are seated, they should 
form a semi-circle, facing the audience, with 
Miss Rogers in the center. They should be 
placed: Miss TV right, Miss Beaton, Mrs. 
Scrubbs, Miss Rogers, Mrs. Smith, Mrs. 
Mellimore, Mrs. JVhite, Mrs. Weston-Jones. 
Miss Rogers should be provided after they 
are seated, with a glass of water on a little 
stand. Mrs. White enters with a broad piece 
of ribbon which she ties in a big bow to the han- 
dle of a gilded shovel standing in the corner. 
She then goes to the table and regards the 
books, novels by Black, Miss Braddon, and 
the Duchess. She goes out and brings in 
^' Lucile ''' and " Aurora Leigh '^ which she 
places in conspicuous positions on the table. 
As she does so the bell rings and Mrs. Smith 
and Miss Wright enter. Greetings.'] 

Wright. Look here, Mrs. White, I don't 
want you to Insult Mrs. Smith by thinking we 
came together. We didn't. We just happened 
to meet at your door. She wouldn't be seen 

208 



THE FUTURISTS 



on the street with me. Of course she couldn't 
tell you, so I thought I ought to. You see, I'm 
an agnostic. 

[The other two ladies look shocked and depre- 
cating. ~\ 

White. Oh, Miss Wright, you oughtn't to 
tell such things on yourself. Nobody would 
know if you didn't tell. 

Wright. But I want 'em to know. I read 
Darwin and Herbert Spencer and Huxley. I've 
read the " Origin of Species " and I'm in " Syn- 
thetic Philosophy " now. I believe In evolution. 
Yes, I do, I believe in evolution. 

Smith. Our minister says that the theory of 
evolution and the doctrine of divine Inspiration 
are not wholly incompatible when you under- 
stand them clearly — as he does — and approach 
them in a spirit of reverence and devout seek- 
ing after truth. He preaches beautiful sermons 
on science and religion. He gives enlightening 
five-minute talks at the opening exercises of our 
Ladies' Aid Society every Thursday afternoon. 

Wright. I s'pose he can give Herbert Spen- 
cer's " Synthetic Philosophy " in a nut-shell In 
five minutes. 

Smith [glaring and firm']. Yes, he can. Our 
Ladies' Aid Society is so active and accomplishes 
so much work. I don't see why Miss Flora May 
Rogers didn't invite all the members this after- 
noon to join the new organization. 

White. Well, it's Presbyterian. 

Smith. I can't see that that Is any objection. 
[Severely.] 

White. Oh, no, of course, no objection, 
209 



SHORT PLAYS 



only all the Methodist ladles and all the Baptist 
ladles and all the Episcopal ladles and all the 
U. P. ladles and all the Quaker ladies and even 
some of the Catholic ladles — so many, you see. 

Smith [stiffly]. I shouldn't expect her to 
ask In all the riff-raff, but almost all the Important 
ladles In town are Presbyterian. 

\_Door hell has rung during her speech. En- 
ter Mrs. Weston-Jones.~\ 

W.-J. So glad to be able to come, Mrs. White. 

White. Oh, It Isn't my — my — 

W.-J. That doesn't make the slightest differ- 
ence to me. I hope I should recognize my so- 
cial duty and discharge It In paying my compli- 
ments to the hostess of the house If I were In- 
vited by some totally ulterior person to a hotel or 
palace or a nunnery. 

Wright. I guess you'd stop for formalities 
with the queen bee if you got caught In a bee's 
nest. 

W.-J. Oh, you naughty Hope Wright, what 
brings you here? 

Wright. I'm sure I don't know, but prob- 
ably about the same thing that brings the rest. 

W.-J. Pardon me but I thought there was a 
particular reason for inviting each one of the 
ladles. I Imagined that each one had some 
especial gift that she could offer as her share of 
the common fund of pleasure. 

Wright. You mean I haven't any parlor 
tricks. 

W.-J. I would never put It so baldly, dear. 
Far be It from me ever to draw Invidious com- 
parisons. I am so awfully modest about my own 

2IO 



THE FUTURISTS 



little talents, yet I feel that it would be wrong 
to deny my friends any little pleasure I can af- 
ford them. So when I am very much urged I do 
consent to recite occasionally. 

\_PVhite and Smith have wandered off to the 
end of the stage.'] 

Wright. Well, you've made your raison 
d'etre clear. Why do you suppose Flora May 
asked Mrs. J. W. Smith to come? 

W.-J. Tut, tut, how disrespectful! To 
speak of our distinguished guide in the fields of 
artistic progress and human thought without the 
prefix of Miss ! She would have to have Mrs. 
S. because Mrs. S. is a leading light in religious 
culture. Miss Rogers desires to bring together 
leading ladies in various branches. 

[Afr5. Smith is heard to say.] 

Smith. I like a good red in a carpet. A red 
and green carpet brightens a room. 

White. I love wood shades. And it's so 
nice to feel as if you was treading on autumn 
leaves. 

Smith. Well, brown wears well. 

Wright. When she's got 'em, she'll have a 
nice collection of missing links. Now why on 
earth did she invite Jim Smith's wife? 

W.-J. Shush! The house, my dear. It can 
be used so beautifully for entertainments. We 
can't have the house without having her. 

Wright. Can't have the nut without the 
worm. 

W.-J. [raising her voice and advancing to- 
wards Mrs. Whit:']. I was just saying, dear 
Mrs. White, what a perfectly beautiful house you 

211 



SHORT PLAYS 



have. It is so artistic. I have never seen so 
much taste displayed. So decorative. Do you 
do it all yourself? Wonderfully aesthetic. I 
try to do a little myself. I am so fond of Japa- 
nese effects. I have a perfectly lovely bird — 
you would adore it — about three feet high, with 
beautiful thin legs, yellow legs — a stork or 
heron or something — with long neck and long 
bill, yellow legs, you know, and white body. It's 
made of cotton batting and the legs are tissue 
paper. You've no idea how charming it looks 
standing by a bamboo picture frame easel in a 
corner of the parlor with two Japanese fans, 
crossed, tacked to the wall above. [^Door-hell 
rings. Enter Miss Rogers, Mrs. Scrubbs, Miss 
Beaton. Salutations.] 

Rogers. Isn't It delightful that we are all so 
prompt? 

Wright. It's just because It's new. When 
the novelty wears off the same Inevitable ladies 
will be late to club meetings as they have been to 
parties and missionary meetings. 

Rogers [sniiling~\. I grant the habit Is strong. 

Wright. It Isn't habit — It's pose. 

Rogers. Still I venture to believe that this Is 
a band of thinking, intelligent, responsible women 
who desire — 

Wright. You seem to have extracted all the 
salt from the sea. 

Rogers. — a band of thinking, intelligent, 
responsible women [always pronounces it wimin] 
who desire to develop themselves, to cultivate 
and foster and promote all their talents and the 
striving after the ideals they feel to be in their 

212 



THE FUTURISTS 



own natures, all the best and noblest and highest 
that in them lies, both for the ulterior benefit of 
themselves as Individuals, and each and every one 
of them as co-workers, and even more deeply and 
earnestly for the benefit of those with whom they 
in any way come into contact, for the benefit of 
the neighborhood in which they live, the com- 
munity they would serve, their church, city, state, 
country, nation. 

l^The ladies all gaze at her in rapt admira- 
tion.^ 

Wright. Oh, If you think It's going to do all 
that. I believe In evolution, myself. It seems 
to me things go rather slow. 

Rogers. Slow, yes ! We can not expect a 
change in the twinkling of an eye, but slowly, 
gradually, beautifully. And from small begin- 
nings — oh, as It were from insignificant begin- 
nings. We are but a grain of mustard seed. 
[She says this with unction, giving the impression 
that she, large and portly, is the iuustard seed.~\ 

White [to Mrs. Smith]. She makes you feel 
your responsibility so. 

Smith [with her pietistic profundity~\. The 
responsibility laid upon us is great — we should 
always feel It as such. 

Rogers [brightening]. It seemed fitting that 
we should begin our afternoon with a little diver- 
sion — diversion of a beautiful and uplifting char- 
acter — and therefore some of our friends have 
been kind enough to consent to add to the pleas- 
ure of the occasion. Miss Beaton has succumbed 
to our urging and will sing. 

[Miss Beaton looks scared and flustered,'] 
213 



SHORT PLAYS 



ScRUBBS. Is everybody here? Don't you 
think we ought to wait till everybody's here? 

Rogers. I think everybody is here except 
Mrs. Mellimore and perhaps it would be an ex- 
cellent precedent both for ourselves and for all 
future ladies' clubs to open our exercises promptly. 
[Very ponderously and then smiling.^ Miss 
Beaton, will you? 

[Miss Beaton goes to the piano. They all 
seat themselves in politely attentive atti- 
tudes. She sings in a high, thin, quavering 
voice '' Sweet Violets." While she is singing 
the doorbell rings loudly. Mrs. Mellimore 
wafts herself in. General disturbance. 
The hostess rises to get Mrs. Mellimore 
a chair. Glances among the ladies. Miss 
Beaton finishes ^' Sweet Violets." Ap- 
plause. '\ 
W.-J. Oh, Miss Beaton, that was so charm- 
ing! What a divine gift Is the lyric expression 
of song. How poor and weak and ineffectual 
does elocution seem beside it. I often say when 
people are kind enough to compliment me upon 
my own little talent, oh, if I could only choose! 
[She shakes her head as words fail to express the 
fulness of her meaning and emotion.^ 

ScRUBBS [in a low tone, pugnaciously consol- 
atory']. We enjoyed It so much. Miss Beaton. 
Your singing was beautiful. Too bad to have it 
ruined by people coming in late. I was afraid it 
would be that way. I told Miss Rogers so. 
Such a racket ! 

Wright. You're a daisy, Miss Beaton. The 
song was a daisy. 

214 



THE FUTURISTS 



Mellimore [floating up — offering her hand 
languidly']. Daisy? Wasn't It about violets? 
[To Miss Beaton.'] So good of you to sing. 
Violets are sweet — but oh, lilies or sunflowers ! 
They are too utterly — too utterly — Couldn't 
you, dear, find a song about a lily or a sunflower? 
And then design a gown like the flower — orange 
silk, for instance, like the sunflower — with per- 
haps green sleeves to represent the leaves, and 
then you would carry one — oh, just one very 
large sunflower — to have it all completely con- 
sistent and aesthetic. Ah, it would be too ut- 
terly adorable ! 

Rogers. Now that we are all here and have 
listened with so much appreciation to Miss Bea- 
ton's music, shall we proceed to business and 
leave the rest of the entertainment till the end of 
the meeting, or shall we have It now ? 

W.-J. \_sweetly apologetic and retiring]. Oh, 
I shall be so glad to omit it altogether if the 
ladles think they haven't time. 

Wright. Let's put the entertainment off for 
the dessert and get to the business now. 

ScRUBBS. My experience In the D. A. R. Is 
that if you get to business you never get back. 
So have the entertainment now and make sure 
of It. 

White. Ain't there time for both? I'm sure 
you don't have to hurry off. 

Rogers. Very well, then, we will proceed 
with the entertainment. Mrs. Weston-Jones, will 
you? 

W.-J. Oh, I feel absolutely wicked to take 
your valuable time. And I feel so small and fu- 

215 



SHORT PLAYS 



tile and inadequate after the beautiful singing. 
\_Then in her most professional voice.^ I have 
selected for my recitation this afternoon a little 
thing with which you are all familiar, a simple 
little story told in verse — simple yet touching 
and with the human appeal that must speak with 
no uncertain accent to the hearts of all. And 
though a simple story, familiar to many of us, 
yet never can it lose its charm. Ladies, I will 
recite the little poem, " Curfew Must Not Ring 
To-night." 

[She recites it preferably with her back to the 
audience and her own audience in a semi- 
circle in front of her and facing the real 
audience. Mrs. JVhite sniffles audibly and 
at the end of the recitation Mrs. White and 
Mrs. Scrubbs are dissolved in tears. Much 
applause — so much that Miss Rogers is 
afraid there is going to be an encore. She 
rises and stems the current.'] 
Rogers [impressively — always impressively]. 
While we all understand that Mrs. Weston-Jones 
has wonderful elocutionary talent, I am sure that 
we must feel that the exhibit she has just made 
of it is of a particularly high order. For my- 
self, I can not help realizing deeply that this is 
due to the importance, the solemnity, the spir- 
itual significance of the occasion. [More lightly.] 
And now that we have enjoyed the beautiful en- 
tertainment these two ladies have provided so 
generously — 

Wright. Got over the frills. 
Mellimore. Oh, Mrs. Weston-Jones, truly 
you are — you are so intense! 

216 



THE FUTURISTS 



Rogers. We will now proceed to the busi- 
ness of the afternoon which as you know is the 
organization of ourselves into the nucleus of a 
society. It may be w^U before proceeding 
further, ladies, to review the situation, to explain 
some truths, tendencies, and indications that have 
been so deeply impressing themselves upon some 
of us. We are now at the parting of the ways, 
we are in the cumulative initiation of a move- 
ment, we are pioneers in new fields of labor, the 
richness of which are as yet unexplored and un- 
dreamed of. A great spiritual breath has been 
passing over the country, through the civilized 
world, one might almost say, and awakening the 
women — yes, ladies, I repeat, the women \_prO' 
noiinces it always very carefully wiininl of the 
land. They are no longer content to be house- 
hold drudges or the futile, vain, foolish play- 
things of the lords in houses that are mere habita- 
tions — no, they are seeking after the arts, they 
are desirous of cultivating themselves, they would 
themselves be and they would fill their houses 
with manifestations of beauty and goodness. 
Beauty, ladies, the decorative female — decora- 
tive actively and passively, subjectly and objec- 
tively — decorative as to herself and as to her 
home and everything she touches — the decora- 
tive female is no longer a dream of Tennyson and 
Ruskin, but she is an accomplished fact. 

Wright [in a loud whisper to Mrs. Scrubbs~\. 
Well, I've heard of accomplished musicians but 
I never heard — but, yes, she's right — the deco- 
rative female is an accomplished fact. 

Rogers. We ladies of the Victorian era can 
217 



SHORT PLAYS 



not tell what we owe to Tennyson and Ruskin. 
They are the Castor and Pollux of Victorian 
Rome, as it were, they are the Moses and Aaron 
of Victorian womanhood — 

Wright [interrupting]. Do you know, Miss 
Rogers, I don't think so much of those two. Fd 
call them — well, the ladies-maid and housemaid 
of the Victorian menage. 

Rogers. My dear, it will be long before 
Ruskin's Influence wanes, if ever. His doctrines 
of femininity and of the home will be Inculcated In 
young women of the future generation and of 
future generations. 

V^RIGHT. I bet they'll kick over the traces, 
too. Just wait till there Is a reaction against 
Papa Ruskin and his cap and apron strings. He's 
the Anglican progenitor of feminine indirect in- 
fluence. 

Rogers. My dear, I understand he's used 
now as a text-book In the colleges for young 
ladies. 

Wright. Oh, what retribution ! 

Smith. Colleges for young women — humph I 

Wright. Don't you believe In them, Mrs. 
Smith? It's what we are all coming to. 

Smith. Believe in them? Believe in having 
my little Janie's mind contaminated by philosophy 
and higher mathematics? Some day I hope she 
may become a mother! 

Wright, I can't see any objection. 

Mellimore. If they would only teach culture 
In women's colleges. But I understand they teach 
a dreadful thing called political economy. 

218 



THE FUTURISTS 



Wright. It isn't so dreadful. It's just a sort 
of log-house In the clearing, Mrs. Mellimore. 

ScRUBBS. I would rather see my daughter in 
a nunnery than let her go to college. I shall 
send her to Europe to study music and German. 

Smith. Women are aping men when they 
want to go to college. Anything but the strong- 
minded, masculine woman. [^She being extreinely 
masculine and strong-minded.^ 

Wright [suggestively^. Well, like the poor, 
she has always been with us. Oh, I grant you 
there will be a period when colleges will turn 
women into mental processes, but that will pass in 
the course of a few hundred years perhaps and 
women will learn to take education with a grain 
of salt, that is humor — humor is the mental 
salt of life — and with Imagination, which is the 
wine of life. 

Rogers. Higher education for women Is too 
radical a step, a foolish and mistaken step to- 
wards anarchy — anarchy of the home — I may 
be old-fashioned — 

\_Cries of ^' Oh, no, indeed, you are not^^ etc., 
from all the ladies.] 

Rogers. — too old-fashioned but I can not 
help regarding It so. 

W.-J. Oh, you are too broad-minded and 
moderate, Miss Rogers ! 

Rogers. As I was about to say, this wonder- 
ful movement, this awakening, this spiritual 
breath that Is sweeping over the land, this psychic 
atmosphere that we are conscious or unconscious 
of, has come to Its fruition, of expansion, of ac- 

219 



SHORT PLAYS 



tive development, and ladies everywhere are form- 
ing themselves into societies. Already these re- 
ceptive followers of Ruskin are absorbed in house- 
hold decoration. They take the simplest things 
and transform them into objects of adorn- 
ment. 

Wright. Yes, it's the day when you can't 
call a spade a spade but a parlor ornament. 

Rogers. Miss Wright, if you will kindly de- 
sist from interruption there will be abundant 
time for discussion later. This room is an ex- 
ample of what we all see in each other's homes, 
of the possibilities in the simplest articles when 
applied to decoration. But we have been grop- 
ing along as individuals, now we come to the time 
for banding ourselves together, to work in ac- 
cord, in unison, for the best good of each other 
and of the many, to develop our tastes, to foster 
the highest ideals, to nurture taste and culture 
and mental activity that is becoming in a woman 
— for that purpose, we, a little group of earnest 
women, are gathered together. 

l^The ladies are much impressed, almost carried 
away. They nod and whisper to each other 
their deep approval.'] 

Mellimore. You have so eloquently ex- 
pressed what we all feel. Only I wish you might 
have added to the prophets of culture and poetry 
the name of Mr. Oscar Wilde. I feel that the 
mosaic mantle of Ruskin has fallen upon his 
shoulders and with a single sunflower in his hand, 
he will lead us on to victory. 

W.-J. You have indeed expressed our 
thoughts more nobly than we could have expressed 

220 



THE FUTURISTS 



them. It Is difficult after such a flight of — such 
a flight of real oratory to proceed to such a hum- 
drum thing as business. 

Wright. If I may be allowed to open my 
head again, may I ask what all are we up to? 
Just what is the object? I like to have things 
definite. You know I'm scientific. 

Rogers. We are going to organize. 

Wright. Organize what? 

Rogers. Ourselves. 

Wright. What for? 

SCRUBBS. To study history. 

W.-J. For private theatricals — Howells* 
farces, perhaps. 

Beaton. A ladles' musical club. 

Smith. To spread an interest in missions. 

White. China painting and wood carving. 

Mellimore. Culture — the analysis of the 
intense. 

Wright. Seems a little vague yet. Maybe 
I'll make out later. 

Smith. We shall have a president, vice-presi- 
dent, secretary, treasurer, and chairmen of vari- 
ous committees. 

Wright. Isn't that nice — then we can all be 
officers before the members are asked to join. 
That's the way to get up a club, fix it up to suit 
yourselves and then invite in the herd to do the 
work and pay expenses. 

Mellimore. Ah, Miss Wright, how delight- 
ful Ironical you are ! 

Smith. We ought to have organization. I 
believe in thorough organization. Complete, 
strong organization is like the foundation of a 

221 



SHORT PLAYS 



building. We must not build on sand. And we 
must be splendidly officered. 

Wright. With ourselves to choose from we 
couldn't help that. 

Mellimore. Ah, Miss Vv^right, how excru- 
ciatingly ironical you are ! 

Smith. We must first choose officers. 

ScRUBBS. Oh, I think we ought to have a con- 
stitution first. That is the first thing men al- 
ways do. 

Smith. We can't have a constitution until we 
have officers. 

ScRUBBS. How in the world can you have of- 
ficers till you have a constitution that tells you 
what officers to have? I am sure the constitu- 
tion of the United States was the first thing the 
Pilgrim Fathers — I mean the founders — did. 
General Washington and Andrew Jackson and the 
rest — why of course they sat right down and 
framed the constitution. Any lady in the D. A. 
R. will tell you that. 

Smith. Perhaps the ladies of the D. A. R. 
have had more experience than the ladies of the 
Ladies' Aid Society or the ladies of the Ladies' 
Home Missionary Society or the Ladies' Foreign 
Missionary Society or the Ladies' Auxiliary for 
Church Extension or the Ladies' Freedman's Aid 
or the Bible Society or the Ladies' Branch for 
the Amelioration of the Orphans and Half 
Orphans of Deceased Missionaries or the Ladies' 
Extension of the Society for the Support of Su- 
perannuated Ministers. [Draws a long breath.'] 
I have held office in all of these worthy organi- 
;zations. I may say I have a little experience. I 

222 



THE FUTURISTS 



am willing to leave It to the ladles present 
whether my opinion and advice are valuable or 
not. 

W.-J. If you win permit a very humble lay- 
man to express a very humble opinion may I say 
that it seems hardly proper, hardly delicate and 
feminine for ladles to be too deeply interested In 
such masculine affairs as a constitution and offi- 
cers. It seems to me that Lord Tennyson and 
Mr. Ruskin would hardly counsel and direct the 
feminine mind to such extremes. 

Mellimore. I feel quite subtly and respon- 
sively sure that the aesthetic school would not 
consider a constitution beautiful. What, oh, 
what is there in a constitution that is graceful, 
poetic, or intense? 

Wright. A constitution Is not at all evolu- 
tionary. 

Rogers. But, ladies, we must have a consti- 
tution. All the newest organizations of ladles' 
societies have them. 

Smith. A constitution is like a brake on the 
slippery wheels of radicalism. 

Wright. And the brake gets rusty. 

W.-J. Oh, dear, you make It sound like 
woman's rights. 

Wright. Well, I don't see why It shouldn't. 
I believe in woman's rights. 

W.-J. Oh, Hope ! 

\^The ladies are all scandalized. Chorus of 
'' Oh, Miss Wrightr^ 

Wright. Yes, I do. I believe in woman's 
rights, and what is more, I'd just like to vote 
myself. {Chorus of '' ohsJ'^ I'd like to do 

223 



SHORT PLAYS 



things like a human being and not like an unde- 
veloped, embryonic thing. And I'd like to work 
and earn my own living and not be doled out a five- 
dollar bill at a time from some harem-keeping 
father or husband or brother. I'd like to earn 
wages like a man and get the same pay for the 
same work. 

W.-J. Oh, my dear Hope, for a young lady 
to work for her living, how unlady-like ! 

Mellimore. One can speak of the sordid 
thing called money only with the utmost disincli- 
nation and aversion, but it seems especially shock- 
ing to refer to it in connection with the delicate 
poetry of femininity. 

Rogers. For a young lady of respectable 
parentage to labor outside her own home is per- 
nicious to all the standards of civilization. 

Smith. It Is a denial of holy law. 

Wright. All the same it's coming. 

Mellimore. Ah, how infinitely more sublime 
It would be if we would endeavor to reach a 
higher plane of artistic appreciation. If we 
would exist Instead of working. If we would 
but breathe Instead of eating. To achieve per- 
fection of line — of just one straight line — to 
produce poetry In the hang of a skirt, to occa- 
sion music In the bend of an elbow, to realize art 
in the contour of a nose, to blend one's soul with 
the soul of a sunflower! 

ScRUBBS. I don't know that I catch your 
meaning but I think If a girl works she'll lose her 
femininity. 

Wright. Maybe she'd just as well lose a lit- 
tle of it and her bustle, too. 

224 



THE FUTURISTS 



Rogers. Ladles, I hope you will not repeat 
this conversation. While we must grant to each 
and every one the privilege of individual opin- 
ion, It would be disastrous to have the extremely 
peculiar views of one member become known and 
perhaps attached by an Inconsiderate public to all 
of us. As the leaders of the thought of the day 
we can not afford to be considered peculiar, 
strong-minded, or possessing strangely unfeminine 
ideas. 

Wright. Well, you know Ideas change. 
What's one man's bucking steer to-day Is another 
man's meat to-morrow. 

Rogers \_severely^. There are some Ideas 
that will remain forever distasteful to truly deli- 
cate and refined women. I believe I voice the 
sentiments of all the ladles present except Miss 
Wright, when I say female suffrage is one of 
these distasteful and pernicious Ideas, 

[They all nod and murmur approvaW] 

ScRUBBS. Wouldn't it be a good thing If we 
passed resolutions disapproving of certain things? 
The D. A. R. frequently pass resolutions. 

Smith. We ought, as a moral Influence In 
the community, to which all eyes are turned, to 
place ourselves on record as upholding all ethi- 
cal principles and disapproving certain deleterious 
practises. Smoking, for instance. I think we 
ought to protest against smoking. Such a meas- 
ure on our part would have great weight with 
gentlemen. Those who are given to the filthy 
habit would be discouraged, those who abstain 
would be strengthened by our moral support. 



225 



SHORT PLAYS 



White. But don't you think gentlemen enjoy 
smoking? 

Smith [severely]. The reason men persist In 
this bad habit Is that they are pampered by fool- 
ish women in It. My husband never smoked. 

Mellimore. Ah, one can not think of the 
smoking of cigars or pipes as lovely or uplift- 
ing or beautiful. The practise seems so — par- 
don the word — so low. Suppose we add the 
suggestion to gentlemen that Instead of smoking 
they should — they should burn incense. 

Wright. Well, I like the smell of a good 
cigar. And men look so cozy and comfortable 
smoking after dinner. Women never look cosy 
and comfortable. How can they? How can 
you be cozy and comfortable In a corset and bus- 
tle? You can't exactly relax when you're on top 
of things that feel as If you were sitting on a 
mastodon's skeleton. I shouldn't be a bit sur- 
prised if women didn't wear corsets some day or 
bustles either. And I shouldn't be surprised if 
they smoked. Td like to smoke, myself. Yes, I 
would, I know I would. Some day, I bet, after 
dinner, cigarettes will be passed to women just 
the same as to the men. 

W.-J. What would Lord Tennyson say ? 

Wright. He smoked the vilest black cigars 
himself, all the time, so I s'pose he'd disapprove. 
His kind of man would. He belonged to the 
band of the monopolizing male. 

White. Are you going to pass a resolution 
against smoking? Because I don't believe my 
husband would let me join a society that was down 
on smoking. 

226 



THE FUTURISTS 



Smith. We cannot countenance smoking be- 
cause of the deplorable weakness of one man. 

Rogers. We are a little group of earnest 
women. All eyes will be fastened on us for 
guidance. 

Mellimore. Couldn't you — couldn't you 
suggest incense to him? 

White. If you all feel that way about it, I 
think I'd better not join. 

Smith. You ought not to give In to your hus- 
band's infirmity. 

White. But It don't seem such an awful in- 
firmity to me. 

Smith. It is, 

W.-J. We ought to set our faces like flint 
against evil. 

Mellimore. Couldn't you divert his atten- 
tion to aesthetic culture? 

Rogers. We must uphold the morality of the 
community. 

ScRUBBS. We've ^ot to disapprove of things. 

White [almost crying]. Well, if James and 
me are so bad, I won't lower you all by being in 
your society, then. And I guess you needn't 
count on my house for your old entertainments, 
neither. 

Rogers. Oh, there, Mrs. White, you mustn't 
feel that way. 

White. Well, I do. [They all rise and try 
to pacify her.'] 

W.-J. Oh, dear Mrs. White, we couldn't pos- 
sibly get along without you. It isn't your house 
— It's you — your decorative nature that's so 
valuable. 

227 



SHORT PLAYS 



ScRUBBS. Let's leave out the resolution about 
smoking and put one in about divorce. 

Smith. As church members, all in good and 
regular standing, we must all disapprove of di- 
vorce. 

Wright. I don't — but then I'm an agnostic 
and scientific. 

Mellimore. Ah, the wedding ceremony 
could be made so adorably beautiful with cherubic 
choir boys, seraphic lilies, heavenly candles, with 
all the solemn pomp and pageantry — if people 
would only remember the beauty of the scenery 
of this ceremony they would be too happy ever 
to want to be divorced unless it was to marry 
some one else and have it all repeated. 

Wright. It ought to be performed by a mag- 
istrate. 

Mellimore. Oh, the gods of beauty forbid! 

Wright. It ought to be managed by the 
state and lots of 'em oughtn't to be allowed. 

Smith. Allowed? The holy sacrament of 
marriage allowed? 

Wright. Holy, your grandmother. It's bi- 
ological. 

[ The ladies all protest. Exclamations of '' 0/z, 
how dreadful/^} 

Wright \_grinning']. Yes, biological, and so 
is divorce usually. 

W.-J. I am only a poor literary person with- 
out any knowledge of science but I have feeling! 
If the ladies are so insensitive to the misfortunes 
under which I am laboring, if the ladies wish 
to pass a resolution disapproving of divorce, if 
one of them compares it and marriage to biology, 

228 



THE FUTURISTS 



which I understand Is the study of bugs and 
beetles, then I feel, ladles, I feel that I must with- 
draw. [She rises. General consternation.'] 

Wright. I guess it isn't worth while for me 
to try to explain my point, but marriage, you 
know. Is — er — is, well, just to have babies. 

Mellimore. Ah, my dear young person, 
what a — indeed, what a gross way to speak of 
the — the beautiful psychic blending of two 
souls. And, If you must speak of the — the ma- 
terial result, why not use a more refined ex- 
pression? Please call them infants, at least. 

W.-J. Pray, ladies, pray, pardon me and I 
will withdraw. 

Rogers. Oh, no, Mrs. Weston-Jones, there 
has been a most unfortunate misunderstanding. 
Of course, you must not go. 

Mellimore. Ah, Mrs. Weston-Jones, remain 
with us. You love beautiful things and you are so 
intense. 

ScRUBBS. You mustn't go. 

[All of them, ^^ Oh, no, indeed not." She is 
mollified and reseats herself.] 

W.-J. If you Insist that I am of a little value 
to you, and the work. 

Wright. I guess I'll have to ask you to ex- 
cuse me. I've got some gardening I want to do 
before sunset. I don't exactly see what you are 
driving at. Maybe later when you get started I 
can come In w^Ith the herd and do some work. 
Ju revoir. You'll find me when you want me. 
Of course I'll be glad to work. 

[She goes out and all of them really gladly say 
good-by.] 

229 



SHORT PLAYS 



Rogers. She thinks this is not work. 

Wright [calling back]. Work is to him who 
thinks it is. Auf wiedersehen. 

Mellimore. Do you know that young per- 
son is in her most singular and impossible way 
really very intense? 

White. Ain't it a nice thing to do, don't you 
think, to take up wood-carving? Under a regu- 
lar teacher, I mean. 

W.-J. Oh, don't you think that china-painting 
would be much more practical? Now, really, 
Miss Flora May, don't you think so ? 

Mellimore. Ah, but lectures on art! Oh, 
think of the wonderful opportunities to hear the 
artistic message from the lips of gentlemen who 
are intense ! Mr. Herbert Ingraham WelhoUand 
Ives, Mr. Edwin Rudolford Blessington Fenwick 
of England, they could be induced for a diminu- 
tive consideration to come over and talk to us. 

ScRUBBS. I think first of all we ought to 
choose colors. I would suggest old gold and pea- 
cock blue. 

W.-J. I think we ought to decide at once upon 
a motto. A motto means so much to outsiders. 

Mellimore. We must certainly adopt a 
motto in French. French is the tongue of cul- 
ture and mottoes. 

Smith. We need organization. Thorough 
organization. 

White. We'd ought to have a nice name. I 
heard of a club in Indianapolis called the Young 
Ladies' Society for Culture and Art. It's just 
called the Y. L. S. C. A. And there's another 
in Terryhut named the Ladies' Culture in Art, 

230 



THE FUTURISTS 



Drama, and Literature Society, the L. C. A. D. 
L. S. 

W.-J. It would be so bright if we could get a 
name that would make Initials spelling something. 
Like Ladies' Art and Culture Association — that 
would spell L. A. C. A. and we could be called the 
Laca. 

Mellimore. Laca. It has a mellifluous mel- 
ody. And that means so much. Oh, the beauty 
of sound speaks volumes. 

White. I wish we could study travel. I 
just adore travel books. 

ScRUBBS. It seems to me we ought to take up 
history. The ladies of the D. A. R. know so 
much history. 

Rogers. Ladles, It seems to me we might 
have papers on all these subjects. We might give 
at least one meeting, for instance, to American 
history. And perhaps another to a consideration 
of China. 

W.-J. China-painting — delightful! 

Rogers. Well, no, I was referring to the em- 
pire. We might give a whole meeting to be- 
nighted China. 

Smith. We could have a missionary to ad- 
dress us. 

[^Maid appears at the door with a tray.'] 

White. Oh, there are the refreshments. 
Should I tell her to wait? 

W.-J. Couldn't we adjourn? 

Rogers. Ladles, shall we have our organiza- 
tion at another meeting, then? i\ll those In favor 
of adjournment, please say I. 
[Curtain.] 
231 



THE GATE OF WISHES. 

Persons. The Man, the Girl, and the Little 
Folk. 

Time. The afternoon of Hallowe'en. 

Place. The top of a hill where there is a 
scattered clump of tall old pine trees and in 
the background a thicker growth of sturdy 
beeches. The hill, sloping down in front, has 
been partly cleared away generations ago 
and now gives a view across and up and down 
a broad cidtivated valley; on the opposite hill 
are the great houses of rich estates; far to the 
south the valley shades into a big smoky city. 
A girl and man appear walking slowly and talk- 
ing. 

He. This day is truly like " apples of gold 
in pitchers of silver " ! Well, a man has a right 
to his portion of joy and I regard loafing in the 
afternoon as perfectly legitimate. Oh, I have 
Biblical sanction for It — "and the evening and 
the morning were the first day." There is no 
mention made of the afternoon and without doubt 
work is suspended then. 

She. Of course you know who Is said to be 
able to cite Scripture for his own evil purposes ! 
Which remark doesn't sound very polite from a 

233 



SHORT PLAYS 



person who ought to be grateful. I wanted to 
come awfully. [She sits down on a log.'\ 

He. And I believe I knew you did all the 
while. Yet I spent the morning trying to resist 
the temptation of telephoning you, and when I 
finally rang you up, I was crazy for fear I would 
be too late and you'd have something else on 
hand. 

She. Why do you say temptation? Are you 
running off from something? 

He [sitting down on the further end of the 
log]. No, I am running off to something. 
[He smiles at her.] 

She [looking hack among the beeches]. Are 
the trees so dangerous? 

He. Not for me — I was thinking of you. 

She. They have never hurt me. 

He. Bless their hearts, of course not. But 
I was only thinking that it was a little imperti- 
nent to ask you to come out here. If it had been 
the matinee — but I was too selfish to sacrifice 
myself to four-walled propriety on a golden after- 
noon like this. A walk in the woods is not con- 
sidered a great treat by most people and is a lit- 
tle unconventional, isn't it? You see I don't 
know you very well. 

She. Don't you? 

He. Do I? 

She. Don't you? 

He. Do I? That is the question that has 
been puzzling me ever since I met you. There 
are people you see always and never know, and 
there are people you see once and have known 
always. It is a feeling on the border of mys- 

234 



THE GATE OF WISHES 



tery. Have I known you in a previous exist- 
ence or am I really jumping to an end I have 
the right to gain only through the sedate and po- 
lite process of acquaintance? Or do I know you 
through that blessed something — call it intuitive 
sympathy ? Or^ is it all a mistake ? Maybe I 
am just the victim of my own stupid conceit and 
don't understand you any better than the dozens 
of other girls I meet. 

She. Don't you understand them? 
He. I'm afraid I don't bother to. But about 
you. Am I right in feeling I know you? One 
can be foolish enough to make humiliating mis- 
takes, you know. 

She. But you are not that. And — I had 
the same curious impression in regard to you. 

He. And of course you are not that sort. 
\They both laugh. His voice becomes exultingly 
firm as he says], I am going to trust to the feel- 
ing about it then. Let's make a fire. [He rises 
and begins to look about for sticks.'] Can't we 
put convention aside — make the old gossip stand 
on her head in a corner, so? [He illustrates 
with a stick.] And begin as if we were old 
friends? 

She. I thought we had begun that way. 
Didn't I stand on the back platform with you 
coming out? 

He. But that might have been because you 
liked my company better than that of the fat 
women with their baskets inside the car. I was 
flattered by your preference. 

She. Being unconventional with a person is 
a preference. I have a much older acquaint- 

23i 



SHORT PLAYS 



ance with those market women than I have with 
you. \_She gets up and helps him gather sticks.^ 
Did you ever notice their faces particularly? 
Time seems to have baked them to a brown sto- 
lidity and the least effort toward expression would 
crack them. You Avonder if the baked clay ex- 
terior hides any emotion. 

He. Oh, a brown Chinese sort, perhaps. 
Yet I wonder if it is not an older and milder 
and more civilized sensation than we ever have. 
But who are we to judge? You and I? Why 
we are half savages, vagabonds, gypsies — at 
least I am and I hoped you were. You see I am 
becoming more boldly aggressive, pretending to a 
knowledge of you I have no right to possess, 
much less to own, [She smiles at the pun.'] But 
you are a gypsy, aren't you? Please say you are! 

She [^sits down on a log. He goes on gath- 
ering sticks, breaking them up, heaping them and 
building the fire while she talks']. I suppose I 
shouldn't care for these woods if I weren't, 
and I do care for them awfully. I know all the 
valleys and hills round here as one knows the 
corners of a house one has lived In always. I 
don't mind confessing to you because you are go- 
ing to be as foolish about them as I am. 

He [smiling]. I shouldn't wonder. 

She. This never moving flock of pine trees 
here on this hill crest Is my lode-star. I can see 
It from any point for miles over the other hills 
across the valley. This hill Is high, you know, 
and the pines, taller and darker and In winter 
fatter than the other trees, are an easily detected 
landmark. Do you like my view? 

236 



THE GATE OF WISHES 



He. I had an intuition of it when we came 
through the gate into the woods from the trav- 
eled road. \_Regarding it critically.^ Yes, 
\^slowly'] it's adequate. It seems to contain 
everything — a compact, well-regulated little view 
with small corpulent market-gardens in the fore- 
ground and in the background stately hills with 
several castles atop, and down the valley at one 
end of the old gray city, and up the valley at the 
other end the dear farm country — all not too far 
to suggest stray fancies. 

She. I knew you would notice the castles. 

He. Of course, for in one of them, in the 
top of that tallest tower there is a princess and 
she is looking over in this direction. 

She. An ogre has her imprisoned? 

He. Just, and our fire will be a beacon light 
to her. Then she will know she still has friends 
in the world and the crickets will sing her a cheer- 
fuller song when the dusk comes up through the 
grass and gathers in the trees and bushes. 

She. We might send her a message by a 
robin. 

He [starting with a quick look at her~\. 
Never! Never! He must be reserved as a lit- 
tle messenger only between you and me. He is 
too nice to be carelessly employed. 

She. He is nice — I might have known he 
would be a little friend of yours. All of life 
seems nice to-day. 

He [sitting down by her~\. Oh, unusually. 
[After a pause.~\ On this sort of yellow day, 
life runs around crying " come and eat me," like 
your little roast pigs in the story you told me. 

237 



SHORT PLAYS 



She. Yellow is so soft and gracious, yet the 
dictionary merely says that it is one of the primi- 
tive and prismatic colors, and that united with 
blue it yields green and with red it produces 
orange. 

He. I should say that yellow maple leaves 
united with blue sky yield joy, and with red oak 
leaves produce delight. A full-leaved glorious 
maple tree above me on a warm October day 
seems a still, exquisite, suspended altar from 
which is lowered an incense of joyous peace as 
I walk beneath looking up into its heavenly suf- 
ficiency. 

She. Have you noticed how towards dusk 
when everything else is darkening, these fair ma- 
ples seem to catch the light and hold it? Spirits 
of little children must poise among the branches 
— they are out earlier at night than the older 
ghosts, you know, because they have to go to bed 
earlier, being so young. 

He. Did you ever see a ghost? 

She. No, but I haven't given up hope. 

He. Then you probably will. But you — I 
dare not use the words I'd like, I wonder if I'll 
ever dare? You ought to see all sorts of beau- 
tiful and curious folk. 

She. These woods are full of them, you 
know — the little folk. [Smiling, she takes a 
stick and draws a fairy circle.'] But to see them 
you have to be very happy and to come at the 
time they like best — which nobody knows. It 
isn't that they are shy, but they are very discrim- 
inating and haughty. Still, I'm trusting to see 

238 



THE GATE OF WISHES 



them, for I'm very respectful toward them and I 
want to so much. 

He. And people usually get what they want 
very much. 

She. Do you believe that? 

He. Very surely, but they don't always know 
what they desire and they aren't always con- 
scious of the thing that comes. The gate of 
wishes has an intricate fastening whose secret 
many people can not win through, and those who 
at last find themselves on the other side, some- 
times look with strange eyes upon an unexpected 
country; some of them see it with the eyes of the 
body and some with the eyes of the mind and 
some only with the eyes of the soul. [After a 
pause.] There is something I want awfully, but 
in myself I lose faith. Do you suppose I ever 
shall have it? 

She. Do you like it well enough? 

He. Yes, I like her well enough. 

She [starting and staring at some trees at the 
side]. Oh, did you see anything then? 

He. I thought I did but in these autumn 
woods 
When big oak leaves come softly sailing down 
And birds still loiter for the warm gold days 
And rabbits wildly skurry out of sight 
And hallowe'en is drawing on apace 
And a dear witch sits by you on a log. 
All sorts of things may happen to your eyes. 

She. Oh, hear the rustle of those poplar 
leaves! It is the first of all the dull brown 
sounds; for the sounds in spring are gentle and 

239 



SHORT PLAYS 



when the breezes stir the leaves they yield a 
music hke the color blue, but in the fall the sound 
grows stiff and hke the color brown. Their 
leaves will cling to those wee oak trees till the 
spring is here and then forlorn, in a new world, 
their own hfe overpast, they'll flutter in a passion 
of despair and wailing, seem like the unhappy 
spirits of unburied men. [After a pause.] 
Surely something stirred around and in that 
ghostly blossom of the golden rod. 

He. ^ A httle hungry bluebird hunting seeds 
Maybe It was. I like the golden rod 
Fantastic, pale and mystical as now 
Better than when it flaunts its hardier hue. 

She. These slender stalks will last the win- 
ter out. 
And on this hillside cold and lone and drear 
The winds will bend and beat them all night 
through. 

He [looking wistfully at her]. 
But now the air is warm and they content 
As I am In the radiance I love. 

She. The romance of the year seems gath- 
ered up 
And strewn before our feet these autumn days. 
No one can miss It. 

He. Even the dullest soul 

Must stumble on It. It is everywhere : 
It's In the air in color, scent, and sound. 
I smell it In the wood-smoke even now — 
That tenuous spirit of the old strong hills — 
And hear it from those birds all winging south 
From lands of dark green pine and dark blue lake. 

She. I heard a sound. 
240 



THE GATE OF WISHES 



He. From that low hawthorn bush. 

Voice \_singing^. 

When the night wind carries the tang of 
the woods — 
Out on the hillside longing to be — 
Where the elves do peer from their 
flower-leaf hoods 
Who will go hunting, go hunting with 
me? 

\^They stare at each other, then he starts to 
his feet and takes a step in the direction of 
the voice.'] 

She. Oh, please don't move — you'll frighten 
them away. 

Another Voice [singing^. 

When the wild winds blow on dark- 
some nights — 
Up In the boughs of the gnarled apple 
tree 
Where the gnomes are smoking their 
little clay pipes — 
Who will go climbing, go climbing 
with me? 

\^He sits down again beside her.] 
She. Isn't It kind of them to come so near? 
The rare good little folk we've longed to see. 
He. But we don't see them yet — what did 
you say? 
That we must bear the blessing of pure joy 
And be in the right place at the right time — 
The place and time the little folk love best. 

241 



SHORT PLAYS 



The stipulation's difficult and yet 

'Tis so with everything of dearest worth. 

She [absently]. 
One sees the things his own heart holds most 
dear. 

He. That wraithlike labyrinth of ancient 
weeds 
Is nice enough to hold a dozen elves. 
And in among those thistles tall and fierce 
Lithe little brownies slip with purpose dire — 
For they, the scamps, use thistles craftily 
To comb the black cat's back and make sparks fly. 

She. Up in the top of that dead oak whose 
limbs 
Are like the knuckles of a lame old man, 
There lives a serious owl and naughty sprites 
Tease him all day what time he tries to sleep. 

Another Voice [sin^in^']. 
When the moon rides high mid warlike clouds — 
Up in the air so far and free — 
Where the witches are weaving filmy shrouds — 
Who will go sailing, go sailing with me? 

He. They're coming nearer, do you see them 
yet? 

She. No, but I feel their presence very close. 
Perhaps it is not yet the witching time. 

He. We're happy, aren't we? At least I am. 
To be with you is happiness enough 
To fill these woods with spirits of delight. 

[He looks about into the woods and towards 
the west,] 
This is the blessed twilight of the year 
And now the silent twilight of the day, 
The drop distilled from all time's loveliness, 

242 



THE GATE OF WISHES 



When in the west the sky grows broad and fair 
With flaming topaz light that gently melts 
Into a liquid turquoise up above. 
The robin sings his wistful twilight song, 
Then wee small gossip crickets will fill in 
The time till comes the wee small haunting owl. 
She. You love these little things? — The 
flight of crows, 
The crickets — 

He. They are very dear to me 

In the big woodland world I love so well — 
Only less dear than are the spots of light 
Within the woodland shadows of your eyes. 

[He leans toward her and looks deep into her 

eyes.'] 
She. Please tell me what you see? 
He. a mystery, 

I look through beauty — never see the end 
And with my heavenly longing am content. 
\_He draws closer, taking her into his arms. 
She seems to see something in one of the 
hawthorn hushes and whispers to him. 
They smile and nod to each other and watch 
eagerly.] 
She [softly]. 
We're very happy at their holy time. 
Another Voice [singing]. 

When the wind's wild spirit lures to 
roam — 
Out on the country roads are we — 
Where all vagabonds are at home 
Who will go roving, go roving with 
me? 
[Voice dies away in the distance,] 

243 



SHORT PLAYS 



He. We'll come, sweet vagabonds, 
She. We'll come, we'll come. 

The moon Is climbing o'er the castle's tower. 
He. She's hastening to catch the message 
dear. 
The rosy kiss the sun has left for her. 
And, see, she is attended by a page, 
A little star who keeps close after her. 
Another Voice [in the distance']. 
In the chalice of a flower 
Do I sleep the long day through, 
In the amber twilight hour 
Do I come to you, my dear, 
Do I come to you. 
He. 

In twilight glow we linger till 
Our fire falls In, still burning slow 
Upon the wooded ridge of hill 
In twilight glow. 

Deep down a stream seems scarce to flow, 
Our far-flown fancies have their will, 
The brown glen swims with mist below. 

The tawny, saffron beech leaves fill 
A background 'gainst which softly blow 
Your tawny locks the ruddier still 
In twilight glow. 

\^As he speaks he rises, taking her hy the 
hand; she rises, too, and they wander off in 
the direction of the little folk. A voice is 
heard farther azvay, singing.] 

Voice. 

Who will go roving, go roving with me ? 
244 



THE GATE OF WISHES 



\_Another voice in another direction, singing 

softly.^ 
Voice. 

Do I come to you, my dear, 
Do I come to you. 



245 



DEC -4 iS(3 



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